


agony

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass Theon, Book Elements, But he's grown since then and now he loves all the Stark kids including Jon, But mentally not so much, Canon Theon loved Robb and no other Starks as a child and it shows, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Demigod Theon Greyjoy, Dimension Travel, Dystheism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Faith of the Seven, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gnosticism, Gods and Goddesses, Greenseers, Hero Worship, Heroes & Heroines, House Greyjoy, House Stark, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ironborn Culture, M/M, Magical Realism, Misotheism, No Father-Son Relationship between Ned & Theon, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Priests & Priestesses, Prophecy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Resurrection, Robb Stark is a Gift, Slow Build Magical Abilities, Slow Burn, Soft smol boys being fluffy af, Suffering to obtain Knowledge, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Theon is physically healed and whole again, Theon-centric, Time Travel, Villains to Heroes, Westerosi Gods and Goddesses, Westerosi Politics, Will I Ever Write A Fic Where Robb Is Not A Lovesick Fool?, probably not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18658162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: The terrible things that happened to you,Didn't make you,you.You always were.It isn't the storm that makes the ocean dangerous.In which Theon fails, and in doing so finds truth, peace and gods. He's born and dies and lives. Lather, rinse, repeat.





	1. Prologue [the Many-Faced God]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> _What if it's agony now... but it's just hell later on?_
> 
> ***

 the Many-Faced God

_death_

  

He was mortified that he had failed, but unsurprised.

The odds were stacked against them all from the very start, but against him especially. Despite Bran’s words of encouragement at this final hour, Theon felt only horror. Their insurmountable enemy was about to achieve his aim and obliterate the font of humanity’s collected knowledge from the world.

Why were the gods always so infinitely cruel? Each time Theon thought he had finally found the depths of their depravity, he discovered he had not reached the bottom of the well. He was not shocked that they chose to abandon him even now, when humanity was at stake. The gods were capricious and incomprehensible, malicious and cold-hearted; an entire pantheon of malevolent beings, with enigmatic powers over the forces of the living world. Be they old and new, drowned and stormy, lord and lady, forged of light or shadow, they offered no restitution, justice or comfort to their followers. Only a fool dared to hope for such things from them. And that hope was quickly dashed upon sharp rocks.

 _There is no holy justice in this world or any other. Only the righteous morality of just men, so easily broken or corrupted,_ Theon realised as he shuddered out his final, futile breath.

Theon stared with unseeing eyes at the Night King, but his final thought was not to lament Bran’s fate, and thus the fate of all humanity. He saw instead Robb’s joyful smile, sparkling blue eyes and luscious pink cheeks; brilliant in the sun, eternally five-and-ten.

 _I should have died with him. Long before I lost my honour, I should have died **for** him, _Theon thought, and then he thought no more.

He died alone, mired in regret.

 

 What do we say to the God of Death?

_not today_

  

Scorching crimson light surrounded him on all sides. Burning, smouldering like flames, but without the heat and smoke of true fire. Theon was alone.

There was no shroud between him and the beyond; nothing to protect and shield him from the naked, bloody flames of divinity. If he had a body, he might have convulsed from the influx of knowledge suddenly tearing through him. With clawed hooks extended, the wisdom of the gods shredded his fragile mind with pitiless brutality, animal and visceral.

Theon no longer had a form to house his vulnerable soul. His mind was unlocked, open and exposed, stripped and raw like a flayed nerve. He could not crouch or cower away, nor could he attempt to break out. There was no darkness to retreat into, no part of him that was not bare and unprotected. He had no voice to scream or whimper or plead for mercy.

There was no sound but the roar of the endless auburn flames, towering over him, the glorious shade of Robb’s hair when it shined in the luminous, boundless, halcyon days of their youth. So long had Robb loomed in Theon’s life; domineering, benevolent and remarkable, that Theon had utterly forgotten how he had chosen to act before Robb’s influence.

Lingering even after death, Robb had haunted Theon’s every breath: in waking and in slumber, with hard, unforgiving eyes.

 _Yes_ said a voice, from within or else without. What it confirmed; he knew not. Theon knew only pain, and silence, and then nothing at all.

 

 


	2. [the Seven who are One: male aspects]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You humans love your pain don't you? You just love being in it. You even consider it a virtue. Cry the most at a funeral, you must be the best person. You promise to never forget each other. You promise to feel the sting of loss ****_ **forever __** _because for you, "forever" is just the blink of an eye. Your lives are pathetically brief. When we say forever, we have to ****_ **mean __** _it. So we move past our pain, we heal, we move on._
> 
> _Because pain? Is a worthless emotion._
> 
> ***

 

father

_judgement_

 

Theon pressed his fingertips together in silent contemplation. He breathed in deeply through his nose. The salt spray in the misty air clogged his lungs as though it were the thick smog of battle fires. But he refused to choke or squirm. Theon kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. He ignored the trembling of his mother’s fingertips, that were clutching his shoulders tightly, like talons. He did not whimper, though her nails were digging into his bony shoulders through his damp clothes. Theon made no sound, of protest or acquiescence or dismay. He simply stood, still and silent and alone.

It was a vision or a dream, Theon had decided. Never yet had he experienced a dream so lucid, vivid and grounded. There were no sudden, inexplicable changes of location, or innate familiarity about his companions that could not be explained by the knowledge he had gained by other means, as so often featured in well-remembered dreams. Theon had not ever suffered from visions such as Bran described, nor had he ever suspected himself capable of warging or greensight. And yet the Maester’s explanations of Jon and Bran’s abilities came closest, to describing the sensations currently subsuming Theon’s senses. Even the air was deceptively accurate, smelling perfectly of sweetly rotting salt rock. Exactly as Pyke always had, and would continue to, until the Iron Islands were finally swallowed by the Storm God’s frothing, boiling rage.

_It’s a miracle I managed to survive even this long on these miserable rocks. The odds being so bloody high that we all die of Greyscale in our infancy, like Uncle Harlon did,_  Theon thought, somewhat darkly amused.

_Even the prolonged anguish from such a miserable, unclean disease, would have been a preferable fate, against all I endured at Ramsay’s hands,_ he mused. _All I **still** suffer, because of what he did to me. Would that I had died a babe in the cradle: the desolation of existence being therefore short, and somewhat bearable._

How clear it all appeared to him now. It was as if Theon had lived his life cloaked beneath a veil, like a Silent Sister. Ramsay had torn and shredded it, allowing him to see mere glimpses of the truth. But Theon had clung to the last tattered pieces of his cloak; later allowing Sansa to mend the frayed threads. But death and the Night King had finally stolen it from him. Now it was never to be returned. At last, Theon saw with clear turquoise eyes. He saw the truth and lies and misery of one and all and every creature that had ever drawn wretched breath. The inherent pointlessness of existence. Every being that ever lived was dragged into sin, despite their noble intentions. Theon understood now that there had never been any hope for him, or anyone else. They were all lost; blind and dumb, stumbling in the dark. But blissful in their ignorance.

Few had ever been cursed with sight, and now at last Theon understood how Bran had been able to set aside all feeling. Now Theon too could see, he comprehended the futility of honour and righteousness and begging for justice. There was no justice to be found in the living world. The gods were petty and vindictive, and craved nothing more than to revel in the torment of their pitiful creations. And men were fallible, foolish creatures, easily distracted and hauled away from their principles. What right did any man have to judge another, when they were all equally sinful and weak? It was pitiable, but humorously ironic.

His mother wept soundlessly. Were it not for her claws grasping into him, as she shuddered in misery, Theon would never have known she was weeping over losing him. He was her last son; her youngest child. To her knowledge, his brothers had just died. Her grief was palpable and entirely reasonable, even though Theon did not share it. Grief was just as pointless as everything else. No matter how many salty tears she dripped into the sea, it would not bring his brothers back. The Drowned God did not care about her lost sons. Not about how well she honoured them, nor about welcoming them into his watery halls.

His father and sister loomed at his back, murky and indecipherable as usual. Theon did not turn to look at them. He did not care to see the expressions on their faces; whatever they might be. Instead, Theon preferred to watch the amoral waves, rolling onwards with white horses of foam, grey and eternal. Waves that were dim and unfeeling, and as honest about their indifference as the gods.

Theon did not feel fear or sorrow when Ned Stark approached his family. He did not feel relief or anger or much of anything at all. His departure from Pyke was unavoidable, inevitable. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. Theon knew exactly what to expect from his new home in the North. Provided, of course, that nothing in this shade world of repetition had been altered, except for him.

_I am boy of ten, and a man of five-and-twenty,_ Theon thought, _and I have survived so much worse than this._

If his parents or sister had offered him words of encouragement and comfort as a boy, when Theon was about to undertake this journey as a child, he did not remember it now. He did recall, however, the embarrassing scene his mother had made, by refusing to relinquish him when the time came. Theon decided to prevent revisiting that outpouring of sorrow again if he could. The woman clutching his shoulders was not his mother, after all. Only a spectre; a pale imitation.

Still, some spark deep inside Theon urged him to experiment with this apparition. If indeed he was in one of the Seven Hells, as Lady Catelyn had believed sinners would spend their dead days in, perhaps altering the script of his memories would prove it somehow.

Theon inhaled deeply, but not a sound passed his lips, aside from a ragged little breath.

With unshielded eyes, Theon considered his father’s failed rebellion. Ultimately, this failed war had estranged his parents, for a multitude of reasons. By the time of the War of the Five Kings, Balon had not left Pyke in many years, and contact between them was sparse. His mother was said to be half-mad. Balon had long abandoned any attempt to seek his wife’s approval, caring only for his own ambitions. Fulfilling his own selfish desires, to build his legend, and prove himself to the hard, cruel men he chose to surround himself with. If Theon could help prevent such a deep rift from separating his parents, perhaps their health and minds would be improved. More charitable. Perhaps their hearts would be less hardened. It was unlikely; another fool’s hope. Try as he might, Theon could not seem to stop himself from clinging to them.

_Yet I seek the patronage of the gods no longer,_ he realised. _They will not give it, regardless of how piously I plead._

He thought again of Robb. He would be a boy of seven in this memory. Safe in Winterfell, cossetted by his mother. Alternately adored and envied by Jon and Sansa, and every other child in the North. Theon was strangely detached from his own former opinions. He remembered being jealous of Robb his entire life, yet covetous of his attention, and hating him just a little. For the ease with which Robb managed to navigate life. He was never confused about his status as the heir to Winterfell, never struggled to understand where his loyalties should lie. Robb was in turn envious of Theon’s ability to charm, and the effortless manner in which Theon could find a jape in situation.

There was a time, long past, when they had been equals of a sort. Brothers. But Theon had been so long hated by the Northmen, that he had almost forgotten the time that preceded it. Now he found himself on the precipice of that time again, yet he could conjure no emotion, for good or ill toward it. The details of his circumstance were unclear; an afterlife torture from the gods yet unrevealed, his dying dream, or a mundane nightmare before the eve of battle.

Theon was too exhausted to much care which instance was the truth. He felt compelled to keep moving along the memory, to see if it revealed itself. But no circumstance that might be revealed, held particular appeal or repulsion from him. Each was as lamentable and worthless as the last.

There was a part of Theon that recalled his fervent wish to make amends to Robb. In feverish, waking nightmares, Theon had wanted to undo all that had been done in his names; real and forced and grudgingly given. It was this memory that managed at last to alight a flicker of investment in him. The gods were not concerned with ensuring justice, nor rewarding fealty and castigating reprobates. Yet Theon felt he might still long to do so himself, somewhere deep in his newly apathetic heart.

_I could stand to look upon a small Robb again,_ he thought, _I swore my allegiance to him, and I broke that oath. The gods may not have cared, but I did. For that, I longed to atone._

So Theon wriggled free to turn and press his small, freckled face into his fake mother or real mother’s scratchy skirts. Inhaling the damp and salty scent of her, for what was like to be the last time. He embraced her tightly and without care for his appearance in front of Ned Stark. He rose his eyes to his mother’s tear-stained face, in a futile attempt to memorise her visage and provide her some small means of comfort. She was exhausted and frazzled. Wisps of her long dark hair had escaped from her braid, and were now being whipped against her pale skin by the savage breeze. In the distance, the rickety bridges of Pyke swayed and quivered and shook in the howling wind. Theon tucked these final moments close to his breast and vowed to keep them safe there, to take out when he needed a reminder why this life was not for him.

So his true nature emerged in dripping bursts dragging foamy wakes; his submerged confidence which had allowed him to save Sansa and Yara, defend Bran and fight for Winterfell against the Night King himself. Theon bid a solemn, heartfelt goodbye to his mother, and walked to Ned Stark unfettered and unprompted. Theon pressed a gentle kiss to his mother’s hand. Then turning swiftly, he stepped away from her possessive touch, and did not look back.

Ned was as austere and stern as Theon remembered. But he no longer seemed to tower over him, nor did he appear so mature. When he was truly a boy, Theon had not known how naive and vulnerable Ned Stark was. Now, he could appreciate with his newly clear eyes, just how young and damaged Ned was. But Theon offered the young lord no reassurance or restitution. He had never sworn himself to any man, save Robb, so he did not yet owe Ned Stark a damned thing. Certainly not a excuse for Ned to mollify himself with. Theon would not be the reason Ned convinced himself that separating a boy from his mother, to take as a hostage, was right or justified.

_It is Robb I owe my allegiance to, and no other, for as long as this vision continues,_ Theon vowed to himself. 

_Fuck the gods. And all the kings and queens of men, too. Hang the First Men, the Rhoynar, the Andals and all the rest. I swear it only by myself; from this day until my last day._

 

smith

_strength_

 

“Now then, boy,” said the robust and portly Ser Rodrick, “So as I can see where best to start with yer training, you’ll need to be sparring with the others.”

Theon said not a word. He only inclined his head, slowly and gracefully. Theon Greyjoy had always been an elegant dancer.

“You’re a bit in advance of little Lord Robb in years, I’m told. So we’ll start with Torghen, and see how we go,” said Ser Rodrick, with a chuckle hovering about his lips.

Theon knew the rare Northern knight suspected he was inferior to Robb in every way. Including Theon’s training in arms, despite being the elder by three years. He wondered now, if it was due to the recent Ironborn losses against the Northmen, or if Rodrick smelled some deficiency in Theon himself. But Theon did not allow the thought to linger. He would never get a truthful answer, were he to ask. In truth, it did not matter what Rodrick believed of him. If Rodrick had the wrong or the right of it, made no odds. Theon could only be who he was. Who he had been forged into, through misery and torment and quiet contempt. No amount of shaking, voluntary or otherwise, would cast loose his deficiencies now. They were woven into the very fabric of his flesh, imperceptible to human eyes, yet eternal wounds, slowly festering his spirit.

Theon frowned, but obediently unlaced his cloak. He ignored the helm and shield offered to him, preferring not to decline with words or gesture. Torghen was a boy of two-and-ten and would grow to be one of Winterfell’s guards. He was to die in the South, with Jory and the rest. A decent enough swordsman. But never tested in real battle, and better with an axe against wood. Still, at this age they were even in height and close enough in weight. It was a fair match.

Theon took the heavy wooden sword that was offered to him without complaint or comment. Once, he had wheezed heavily, after bouts with wood against boys his age: as did they all. But the wood did not seem so dense now. Not when balanced against the masses of painful memories weighted around Theon’s neck and arms and stomach, invisible and impenetrable by key or chisel or saw. Theon placed his feet in a ready stance, holding his wooden weapon aloft. For a moment, he did not see Torghen, or Rodrick or any other living man. He saw only the Night King, wreathed in icy despair, emerging from the darkness with a steady, unhurried pace. Theon barely registered Rodrick’s command to begin; he whirled the wooden sword like an extension of himself, regardless of his unfamiliarity with it.

Theon had never been especially skilled with the sword, preferring instead his bow and dirk. After Ramsay, he could wield neither. Even when his mutilations had healed, returning to his former weapons only served to remind him of his diminished abilities. Instead, he had taken up the axe and knife. His vision at least remained as sharp. He was deadly accurate almost every time when he took aim and threw. It was how he had saved Yara, how he had defended Bran well enough to be the last man left standing when the Night King arrived. There had been no distractions for him except training, once he pledged himself to Yara and the Dragon Queen. Ironic, that he should only be skilled enough to defend himself from harm _after_ being maimed badly enough that the maesters predicted he might never wield a weapon again.

Theon struck blow after smarting blow. He did not fight to prove or promote himself. He was driven only by the urge to survive one more breath. Torghen quailed from the onslaught, unprepared to be beaten so soundly by every strike, even the ones that glanced off his shield and padded helm. Theon danced away from Torghen’s attempts to rebuff him. Theon noted Torghen’s tendency to leave his left flank unguarded and took merciless advantage. Avoiding jabs and smacks by parrying smoothly or avoiding the swipes altogether. With hooded eyes and begrudging respect, the Northmen watched Torghen become steadily more unhinged by his fury, as Theon remained stoic and expressionless, barely winded.

The bout was over in scant minutes. Stumbling back in his effort to stave off Theon’s rabid blows, Torghen lifted his shield arm, and left his belly unprotected. Theon pressed the advantage. Theon jabbed the older boy so soundly in the centre of his chest, that he laid him out. Flat on back, Torghen lay spread atop the cobblestones. Panting beneath Theon’s practice blade, which sat, severe and oppressive, against his throat. Emotionless and flat, Theon demanded the other boy yield. But his light eyes were watery with compassion, and he did not smirk.

After gaining Torghen’s surrender, Theon waited for the boy to toss aside his pretend sword. Only then, did he remove his wooden blade from Torghen’s throat. Then he offered the other boy his hand. After a glare of frank suspicion and mild disbelief, Torghen took Theon’s hand. Humbly, he allowed the younger, stranger boy to lever him up.

Seemingly unnerved by Theon’s total domination, with such a lack of exertion, Ser Rodrick watched with no comment as Torghen limped away. Taking what remained of his dignity, to lick his wounds in private. Theon remained in the yard, waiting to be dismissed. Unbowed and unbent, but definitely broken. He was not even breathing particularly heavily.

But he was not to escape so easily. His next opponent was a squire. Assertive, but not arrogant, Theon accepted Rodrick’s choice of Northern contender without protest. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Ned Stark had stepped out onto the balcony above, drawn by the hubbub to see Theon’s skill for himself.

Seeing that Theon once more refused a shield, his opponent abstained from one also. Theon felt his shoulders relax a little at that; it would make the fight quicker. They raised their carved and sanded swords to one another, Theon holding his with two hands across his body, resting it over his shoulder. When the squire advanced, arcing his weapon toward Theon with intent, Theon swung his own to meet it, gripping with his dominant hand only.

They crossed swords for a fraction of a minute, then Theon lifted his left arm and wrapped it underneath then around his opponent’s wooden sword, grabbing hold of the handle just above the crossguard. He dragged the other sword down to lay flat against his bent left elbow and forearm, tilting it safely away from his stomach. The squire fought to tug it free from Theon’s kraken-like grip. Even using both hands, he had no chance. Theon’s suckers held firm, and he secured his second victory as he kept his own sword aloft, to point the tip at the other boy’s throat.

Humiliated, the boy ceased struggling and surrendered, dropping his grip and relinquishing his hold, so that Theon was left with two wooden weapons awkwardly suspended for a long moment. Then he let the blunt weapons clatter to the stone ground. Silently showing he was over-qualified for their continued use. Thus Theon was given leave to exchange wood for tourney blades.

Rodrick gruffly called for Cley Cerwyn. A boy younger than Theon by only a year, he was a frequent guest at Winterfell due to the proximity of Castle Cerwyn, which was only a day’s ride. The Stark and Cerwyn children were thusly close in friendship. Though Cley was not especially clever or brave, he was even-natured and deferential, so pleasant enough company for Robb. Theon carefully checked his for cracked steel or other treachery, but finding none, he consented to face Cley.

The boy was normally better than Torghen, but he lasted no more than one parry against a boy who had been to war, and faced living monsters of ice and magic. Theon held his sword high in both hands, and advanced carefully, even as Cley lunged at him. Their swords met with the subdued ring of dulled steel. Theon immediately jumped and twisted to the right, cutting Cley’s sword downward with his dominant hand, so that the blade was pulled clean out of Cley’s grasp. It flew past them in a silver flash, to clatter on the bare stone behind, as Northmen cursed in shock. With his left arm, Theon had wrapped up both of Cley’s fists, clenching them tight to his chest. So that the other boy was wrenched forward into an awkward stumble, which resulted in Cley sagging, his nose almost scraping his boots. The whole sequence had lasted the mere blink of an eye.

The Northmen were clearly fuming now, at Theon’s distinct and obvious aptitude, vying to be the next in line to spar with him. Rodrick ignored them, selecting his own nephew Jory. Theon knew the mature men only wanted to trounce him, to exert their dominance and feed their own pride. But Theon needed no reminder of his place in this world. The gods had seen to his arrogance and hubris already, using Ramsay and Roose Bolton as their agents. These lesser demons could not conceive of a torture so foul that it could touch Theon now.

Being a man grown, Jory was stronger and had the advantage of height and greater experience. But his contempt, and desire to knock Theon into the dirt as though he were a silly, ungrateful boy who knew nothing of warfare, would be his downfall. By contrast Theon felt nothing for Jory, or anyone else. No rage or disgust, fear or desire to impress. He remained as aloof and detached from them, as ravens were from the kingdoms beneath the sea. Shrewdly, Theon swiftly decided that speed was to be his advantage against a heavier, broader foe. In this borrowed flesh, he was lithe and small; there was less of him to hit, if Jory could get close enough to attempt so. Theon’s vulnerable spots were harder to reach, being smaller targets. His tolerance for pain was extremely high, having withstood such harsh torment, which no man would suspect merely from the look of him, which was uncrippled, unbruised, and unscarred.

Theon was effortlessly able to keep his entire focus on fighting his living enemy. It seemed so easy, versus the undead. Living men ached and grew weary, were distracted by pain or the threat of it, over-thought themselves, and allowed their sense of honour to ride roughshod over their instincts. Theon was no longer limited by any such earthly concerns. He had at last been drawn behind the veil, and thus transcended to this limitless place, made of his lingering memories and the untested opportunities they afforded. It was an intriguing possibility, to plunge into the rabbit’s warren of potential paths he could have followed. To see what further madness and melancholia resided there.

So Theon felt nothing as he glided across the hay-strewn cobbles, as though sliding across frozen water, slick and controlled and effortless. No fear or resentment or even excitement. Ducking beneath Jory’s increasingly wild and unstable thrusts, Theon avoided most damage, and barely winced when a heavy blow did connect. His stomach and shins were like to be littered with dark purple bruises, but his padded leather armour protected him from broken ribs or ruptured organs, and Theon’s lack of interest in his own pain did the rest. Despite his annoyance, Jory was holding back from putting his full weight behind his sword arm. His honour would not allow him anything else.

As Jory’s sword sang past his cheek, narrowly avoiding his ear, Theon considered how freeing it would be to spar with a crannogman. Of all Northmen, they were known for utilising every weapon in their arsenal, and did not waste effort on fighting with honour. Perhaps that made them the most valiant Northmen of all. They did not pretend they were incapable of brutality, nor did they refuse to take every opening given to them.

Honesty was the better part of valour, Theon reasoned, as he danced away from a low swipe directed at his legs. The guardsman had leaned into the blow, his entire body crouched low. Theon did not hesitate to jump over Jory’s blunted sword. The unexpected move took Jory by such surprise, that Theon was able to land a solid blow on his face. Because Jory was leaning forward, Theon’s gloved fist connected with his nose with a sickening crunch. A burst of blood sprayed out, spattering Theon’s armour and dusting his ruddy cheeks.

Refusing to waste time, by allowing the older man to regain his wits from the double-blow of two unanticipated moves, Theon threw all his weight into smacking the flat side of his sword into Jory’s ribs. A punishing blow that made him double over with a wheeze. But his sword remained aloft, clashing against Theon’s again, in a metallic screech like a dragon’s scream. Theon was not strong enough to force it back. But he was close enough to shove the sole of his foot into Jory’s crotch. Jory keeled over with a wheeze, while Theon skittered back, out of range of the arching swords.

With tears in his eyes, Jory staved off Theon’s overhead blow while still on bended knees. Knowing he could not allow Jory to rise, even to one foot, Theon pressed forward. With strength that belied his small size, with all the fortitude of a grown man desperate to survive, Theon forced Jory to remain on his knees. Until his back buckled, and he reached up grasp at Theon’s throat with his spare hand. Theon wrenched that hand away, twisting his grip to bend Jory’s fingers backward unnaturally. Theon felt the brittle bones beneath the skin begin to grind together, threatening to snap.

“I yield!” Jory cried, sweat dripping down his face to mingle with the blood from his nose. It smeared on his face in a ghastly, bloody mess, that made the shallow injury seem much more severe that it was.

Almost bored, Theon waited as Jory’s shoulders slumped, before he allowed the other man to carefully lower his tourney sword. Theon waited with empty eyes. But the man did not leap up and attempt to attack him again. With a final hollow look of confirmation, Theon turned sharply. He trudged back to Ser Rodrick, to silently await his next challenger. The old knight was watching him with a mix of uneasy disquiet and revolted repugnance. Once, Theon might have been curious to know if that disgust was for him and his actions, or for House Greyjoy and the Ironborn way of teaching arms to children. Which Theon had supposedly just revealed. But as with all things, Theon’s sense of curiosity was futile, and therefore long-buried.

“Alright, lad,” said Rodrick slowly, “I can see there’s no point training you with the green boys.”

Theon tilted his head, watching House Stark’s master-at-arms slowly forming his conclusion.

“The sword must be your only weapon, Lord Theon,” he muttered, “Though the gods alone know where you’ve been hosting that brute strength, in those skinny little arms of yours.”

Theon considered the blunted weapon in his hands, for a long, quiet moment, and then shrugged.

“I’m better with knives,” Theon said softly.

His quiet voice was free of conceit; honest and raw, a simple assessment of his paltry skills. He caught only a few glimpses of uncomfortable disbelief as the Northmen exchanged wary glances. Then he returned his attention to his borrowed sword. It was old, the leather handle cracked and brittle, but the blade had been highly polished before Theon had used it to batter Jory. Now it was grimy; slick with greasy sweat and ingrained with dirt.

_Much like I am,_ Theon thought, but it no longer weighed so heavily on him, not now that he understood every other soul was just the same. Blemished and disfigured with invisible marks.

Theon raised his voice, just a little, as he concluded without fanfare; “The bow is my preferred weapon.”

“Gods, lad,” said Rodrick, “Tell me you’re japing.”

Theon looked at him blankly.

“No. I gather you’re not one for much japing, eh?” Rodrick shook his head, astounded, his huge belly wobbling as he moved. “Well, run along now. You best wash up for luncheon.”

“Luncheon?” Theon echoed dumbly.

Luncheon for fighting men at Winterfell was usually a swig of soup and a crusty bread roll between bouts of sparring. Then he recalled that it was no longer the depths of winter while they were at war. It was spring still. Lady Catelyn hadn’t even fully swelled with Bran yet, though her stomach had already started to expand noticeably.

“In the great hall, lad. Symon here will show you the way,” said Rodrick, affecting an unconcerned, jovial air.

Theon wondered why Rodrick bothered with the farce. The views of a hostage amounted to little in the end. There was no need for affectation. But Theon felt no compunction to offer up his opinion on the matter. It was likely Rodrick did not even know he was being false. Or else he thought it a kindness, to be gentle with the little savage now entrusted to him. Rodrick would not wish to be labelled false, and so Theon volunteering the truth was neither welcome nor necessary. It would only lead to more misery, and Theon’s cup had already runneth over with that.

Symon, a man-at-arms, reluctantly stepped forward to see to his appointed task. There was something like awe in his flinty grey eyes. It made Theon uncomfortable to see it. So he looked away, and found himself staring at a pair of small feet, clad in familiar, well-loved boots.

“There’s no need, Symon,” said Robb, cheerful and high-pitched with youth. “I can escort Lord Theon to the hall.”

Theon twitched, resisting the urge to drink in his fill of Robb’s sweet face for just moment longer. Then he succumbed to his craving, raising his unworthy eyes to Robb’s tiny, ruddy face. He was short and stout, years from his growth spurt. An infant almost, with huge blue eyes that seemed to take up half of his face. His hair was a riot of red curls, brighter than Theon remembered. It went lighter in the sun, he recalled wistfully.

Robb offered him a wide, bemused and impressed smile.

_He’s not real,_ Theon reminded himself, like a cruel pinch from bony fingers. _He’s just a shade. Just a ghost. Don’t shame yourself by prostrating yourself before him. You’ll only scare him away, back to the shadow he was conjured from._

Seemingly thrilled, Robb grasped a hold of Theon’s elbow, tugging him away from the courtyard and the unnerved men at their back.

“Seven Hells,” Robb whispered when the men were out of earshot, “How did you manage to best Jory like that?”

Theon stared at him, drinking Robb’s little round face in. Like a man who had crawled through the burning deserts of Dorne to fall face-first, into an oasis. One gulp would not be enough to quench his insatiable thirst. Theon knew it well.

“Lord Theon?” Robb’s high voice piped up, prompting Theon to finally blink, and offer the little boy the shadow of a smile.

“What is dead may never die,” Theon said, “But I had to try and best them anyway.”

Robb’s boyish smile faltered, but at length he rallied.

“You have to show me how to do that move, the one that made Cley's sword fly out like that. I've never seen anything akin to it!” he said, so earnestly eager to learn and befriend him.

In that moment, Theon wanted to promise Robb the world. But he no longer made promises he could not keep.

“War is not a game,” Theon said softly. “I’ll show you how, Lord Robb, when you understand that.”

Robb stopped abruptly, flushing red in shame. For a moment, Theon thought he might run away, petulant because his pride had been hurt. But that is what Jon would have done. Robb had mostly grown out of such displays.

“I know war isn’t like the songs,” he said, suddenly subdued.

Theon was unsurprised that he immediately ached to see Robb smile again, though he was the one responsible for wiping it from his face. Theon had always been one to pile up his mistakes. Even so, he could not bring himself to regret it. This Robb was a green boy of summer. If there was even the smallest sliver of a chance, that Theon might get to live out a prolonged vision, he had to take it. He longed to experience what might have happened, if Robb had matured more politically sound, and grew up understanding the true horrors men were capable of. What a king Robb would be, then.

“Do you, my lord?” Theon whispered, “Have you seen your home razed with fire, heard the screams of men you have known all your life as they are hacked apart? Have you seen the bodies of your brothers laid out on bare rock, cold and lifeless and bloated with salt water?”

“No,” Robb whimpered, his lower lip trembling.

He was a boy of seven, but for Robb’s own sake, Theon could not afford to be reticent.

“I have,” he said, “And when I close my eyes, I hear their screams still. Swear that you will never jape about war or battles or killing, and I will teach you how to fight.”

Robb quietly considered his offer, staring up at Theon with wet, river-blue eyes; a perfect reflection of the cloudless spring sky above. Theon wanted to ruffle his curls, simply to watch as the sun rippled through the flames.

“I swear it,” Robb said stoutly, solemn and ever so candid, the way only children and court jesters were, “I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Theon nodded, grimly pleased to have wrung such an oath from him. Even though he privately believed there was no point swearing on anything which would never hold you to account. Better to swear on yourself; at least then you knew who was responsible for your misery, and to whom you were beholden.

 

warrior

_courage_

 

Once, Theon woke every day expecting to find himself still hanging on the flaying cross, or else curled in the stinking hay of the kennels. Gradually, he had begun to sleep more soundly, lulled by the gentle rocking of Yara’s fleet, or almost smothered by the cloudy warmth of a featherbed. But he’d never managed to shake off the terrors that loomed out of the dark in his dreams when he was living. He was not disheartened to find it was the same now that he was dead. Chiefly because he had expected no different. If anything, Theon was starting to grow irritated with how long this charade had lasted. Thon had been at the shade of Winterfell for a handful of sennights. Yet the Lord of the Seven Hells had refused to show his face. And his lesser demons were doing a pitiful job of driving Theon out of what remained of his wits.

Early rises and a punishing schedule in the yard hardly counted as torture. Even though the creature masquerading as Ser Rodrick routinely pitted Theon against grown men, that were twice his size and weight. Theon did not manage to best them all – he wasn’t fucking Barristan the Bold after all – but his adult skill trapped in a child’s flesh counted for much. Most of the techniques Theon had mastered did not rely on brute force. Because he had always been wiry and lithe like his father, rather than bulging with muscle like his Uncle Victarion, or the Mountain. Still, Theon practiced more now than he ever had before. He even started to train his weak arms with iron weights, to make them stronger. It seemed the logical step to take. As a boy, Theon had filled his time with pranks and japes, cheek he had no interest in any more.

All forms of pretence, including tricks and games, seemed repulsive to Theon now. And not only because of Ramsay’s adoration for naming his manipulative tortures as unwinnable challenges and games. But because they seemed pointless at best and destructive at worst. Songs had led Sansa to believe the world was made of chivalrous knights and kind maidens, the truth tormenting her ever the worse because of it. Robb believed entirely in the code of honour his father spouted, and it would blind him to the trickery of his adversaries, culminating in his slaughter under sacred guest right.

_A pox on all the laws of gods and men,_ Theon thought, when he mustered the energy to be angry enough to dwell on it, _Dishonest coverings is all they are. We each fight for ourselves, and those we claim to love. Everything else is horseshit._

Despite his newly lacklustre nature, Robb still seemed to find Theon fascinating. He had done, since the very moment they met again for the second initial time. Ned Stark had greeted his family warmly on his return from war, doting on each child in turn. Even Jon, despite being in full view of his wife and all of Winterfell. Theon had hung back, content to be unseen and unacknowledged, until at long length Ned remembered to look for him.

“This is Theon of House Greyjoy,” proclaimed Ned, “He is to be a ward of our House-”

Despite his tendency to ignore the fleeting flickers of emotion in his breast, Theon could not allow that to slide.

“If it please my lord,” Theon interrupted, “I am a hostage. Held against my lord father’s good behaviour. If he rebels against the Iron Throne, your father, Lord Stark, will cleave my head from my shoulders. Though I am but a boy of ten, and have yet committed no crime against your people.”

There was a stunned, horrified silence at that. Robb’s bold blue eyes widened to become perfectly round, like saucers. But Ned did not deny the charge, when Theon stared up at him with blazing eyes, challenging him to dare try. The man’s shoulders slumped, and his face turned grave.

“It is highly unlikely to come to that,” said Ned Stark, refuting Theon’s rightful worry, “Lord Greyjoy has given every indication that he will keep to his renewed oath.”

“Aye,” said Theon, “He will, so long as Robert Baratheon draws breath. Do not think to look for the same fealty toward his son, however. Ironborn oaths do not linger in perpetuity, like those on the green lands. We do not swear ourselves to any one House or dynasty forever. Only the man that leads it, if we find him worthy.”

Ned Stark paled, as several of his companions began to mutter amongst themselves. Evidently Theon’s bitter, hate-filled words of warning had carried further than he had intended. He was surprised that this truth of Iron Island custom had returned to him, so swift and sure on his tongue that he could not doubt the words. Unnervingly, Theon realised he sounded like his brash sister. Theon reckoned it must be down to the regression of his flesh down to his boyhood state. Or else due to his recent proximity to his birth family.

“You should do it now, and be done with it.” Theon declared, clenching his fists as he glared up at the man who had raised him at an arm’s length.

Ned Stark had always known he could never allow himself to love Theon as a son, for precisely this reason. He might be called upon to execute Theon someday, and love might stay his ‘honourable’ hand. For this reason, Theon’s longing to be considered a Stark had only ever been a child’s fantasy. A pretty lie he had once whispered to himself in the hour of the wolf.

“Ned-” hissed Lady Stark, dismayed and disturbed, as she clutched infant Arya to her buxom, milk-swollen bosom.

The girl of two was already defiant, squirming to be set free of her mother’s tight hold. Theon’s thin lips quirked into a wry but joyless smile at the sight of it. Then his view was blocked as Ned Stark knelt before Theon, to look him directly in the eye.

“You are to be a guest in this House,” he said, “And I offer you bread and salt.”

Theon blinked, almost astounded. Never in his life had he been offered guest right in Winterfell, not even when he had returned to fight for the Starks against the Others. Still, he needed only seconds to respond.

“Keep it. If my life is to be forfeit, let it be here and now. Let me die, while there is still some part of _me_ left,” Theon demanded, borrowing Sansa’s brave words as she stared down the shaft of Myranda’s nocked arrow.

The tiny Sansa of single-digit-age stuck one hand into her mouth. She was nibbling her nails in fright, as she clung onto Jon’s hand, in a rare display of affection for her baseborn brother. She must be truly frightened, to behave so, Theon realised regretfully. Little else would compel her to reach for Jon, especially in her mother’s sightline. But the little lady Sansa did not relinquish her brother’s hand, even under her mother’s hard look of disapproval.

Lady Stark tried in vain, to lead her children away from the tense, unexpectedly serious exchange taking place in their earshot. But Sansa resisted her tugging touch, and Robb did not even acknowledge his mother at all. Somewhere deep inside, satisfaction welled up in Theon at the sight of it. Robb only had eyes for him. And though she was not his brave girl yet, the sight of Sansa defying her mother, and turning to Jon when in distress, was confirmation enough that she would be, one day.

The young Ned Stark did not invoke such admiration in Theon. The grizzled Lord of Winterfell was gaping at him in clear consternation, though there also appeared to be a glimmer of respect in his cloudy grey eyes. Theon valiantly resisted the urge to spit on the muddy earth, and tell Ned Stark, a man he had respected in life, exactly where he could stick his respect.

With a deep breath, Theon released all emotion again. He allowed himself to float back into the mist of indifference. Vayon Poole had arrived with a wooden serving tray, containing the necessary bread and salt for guest right. The greying man hovered at Lord Stark’s back nervously, clearly unsure if he should interrupt the silent contest of stares, between his liege lord and a boy of ten. Eventually, the poor man made his presence known with an affected cough. Theon twitched at the falsehood, but said nothing more.

“Will you take guest right?” sighed weary, care-worn Ned.

“Will you execute me, if I don’t?” Theon countered, the blaze of fury once more washed clean from his voice, leaving it restrained and unsentimental.

Robb looked as though he might burst into tears, regardless of the answer his father gave. Theon dragged his eyes back to Ned’s grave face, in an effort to distract himself from the urge to reach out, and draw the little boy he had loved as a brother, into a comforting embrace.

“No, boy,” Ned said with a shake of his head, “I’ll not have your blood on my hands this day.”

Theon almost rolled his eyes at the predictable reply.

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” Theon blurted, hard and demanding. “I demand to look my denouncer in the eye. If you will not pass the sentence, Lord Stark, send me to a braver man - someone who will.”

“Gods above,” whispered Lady Catelyn, making the sign of the Seven, as though to bless and protect her children from the obvious madman in their midst.

“Is the prospect of a life here so very terrible, that you would rather leave this world entirely?” Ned asked softly, “Surely it cannot be so. The North is very different from your home, this I know. But you can still fish, and ride, take lessons from our maester, and there are plenty of children about your age to befriend.”

Theon did not tell him he needed no friends, only allies to help him defend Robb and the other Starks, when the time came. There was a long, tense silence.

“I’ll take the bread and salt,” Theon said at length, his voice entirely flat once more. Ned’s shoulders sagged in relief, but Theon did not let him remain lulled into a false harmony for long. A false peace was just another deception, and Theon was done with all of that. If he could not be true in his own memories or afterlife, when could he?

“I’ll take it,” Theon reiterated, “But not for you, Lord Stark.”

Theon's eyes were only for Robb, then. The look they held between them was lengthy and unfathomable, and filled with unspoken promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon vs Cley:  
> [](https://gifyu.com/image/9kdi)


	3. [the Seven who are One: female aspects]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But human nature has not been totally corrupted:_ **it is wounded** _in the natural powers proper to it, subject to ignorance, suffering and the dominion of death, and inclined to sin - an inclination to evil that is called concupiscence._
> 
> ***

mother

_mercy_

 

Benjen Stark arrived at Winterfell in late spring. He swiftly stole the attention of Jon and Robb for a time, and Theon was glad of it. Some privacy was required, so that he could occasionally howl and weep into his featherbed in peace.

“And who is this?” Benjen asked the first night of his visit, as a Wandering Crow. He had joined the Starks, Jon and Theon, at the high table away from the rest of the rabble.

“Theon of Harlaw,” said Theon promptly.

Robb was unsurprised, having heard Theon introduce himself by his newly assumed moniker several times. Robb was slurping his stew uncouthly, occasionally missing his mouth in his enthusiasm. Theon was torn between snorting with fond laughter, and taking a handkerchief to his chin.

Ned and the other adults, which only comprised of his wife and brother, looked at Theon in askance. But he was not chastened. It was not a lie. He had been born on Harlaw, whilst his mother was visiting her brother, Rodrik the Reader. He’d taken his first breaths there, at the Ten Towers, the seat of his mother’s family. Both of Rodrik's sons had died in Balon's failed rebellion, and his elder sister Gwyn had never married. So it would lie empty when Rodrik died, if no distant cousin claimed it. Theon was pretty sure his cousin Harras was the first in line as the new heir to the Ten Towers. But Ser Harras was already the head of another house; the masterly branch of House Harlaw, settled in the stronghold of Grey Garden.

Theon was no longer Balon’s heir. Not savage enough to be the Lord Reaper. But he could stand to take charge of Rodrik’s beloved books. That would please his gentle Nuncle, no doubt. No one else took much interest in Rodrik’s collection, and he probably assumed it would be buried at sea with his body, when the time came. He could be persuaded to name Theon for his heir, if Theon showed sufficient aptitude in his studies with Maester Luwin. He had already requested reading material well in advance of his age, in hopes of impressing the old man he had once put to death. Maester Luwin had pursed his wrinkled grey lips, as though he saw through Theon's scheme, but it mattered not. The old man could doubt Theon's understanding of the proposed materials all he wished. But he would be suitably knocked back, when Theon proved himself by answering probing questions in his lessons. It was no hardship to read a book intended for a man's eyes.

“Theon Greyjoy, Balon’s last son,” Ned introduced Theon to Benjen, with the beginnings of a frown. Consternation often sat on his brow here in the shadow world, whenever Theon opened his mouth.

Theon watched Benjen assess him with mild interest, as though taking the measure of him. Or wondering how long it would be until he took the Black, perhaps. Theon was sure to disappoint him on both accounts.

“He’s to be in fostage at Winterfell,” said Ned firmly, ignoring Theon’s snort of disdain, “And will succeed his father as Lord of the Iron Islands someday.”

“I will never be the Lord Reaper of Pyke,” decreed Theon.

The table stilled at his loud denial of his own birthright. Robb froze at his side, wooden spoon halfway to his mouth. Theon ignored the heavy stares all about him, looking directly into Ned Stark’s cold grey eyes.

“You saw to that, Lord Stark, the moment you took me from the Isles.”

Ned shook his head, unwilling to consider Theon’s words too closely. “You are Balon’s heir.”

“By the law of the green lands, maybe,” said Theon, snatching his sister’s words out of his memory.

Benjen frowned deeply, his kinship to Ned ever more pronounced because of it.

“A son inherits first in Westeros, excepting Dorne,” he said slowly, musing on Theon’s words with more deliberate reflection than his elder brother.

Technically, Benjen was entirely correct. Theon knew that technicalities were horseshit without powerful shows of force, which is why the Mad King was skewered in the back but the Dragon Queen had convinced the Dothraki to fight for her.

“Ironborn men will never follow a man that did not grow into maturity under their tutelage,” Theon explained. Men of war could understand such things, even politically naive Northmen.

“Trust will take time to regrow,” Ned agreed, “But your claim continues to be upheld by law.”

“Tell me, Lord Stark, how many wives can a man take, under Westerosi law?”

Ned shifted in his hard, straight-backed wooden seat, uncomfortable, but ashamed to show it. The table seemed bemused by Theon’s seeming change of topic.

“One, of course,” Lady Catelyn cut in, appalled by the turn of the conversation.

Theon’s eyes snapped toward her, like a hawk catching sight of its quarry at last, with pinpoint focus. Naturally Lady Stark would be the one to answer. She was probably still half-terrified Ned would throw her over for Jon’s mother. The lady that made Ned forget his honour must have been some beauty, some wench he held in the highest esteem, to love her enough to bring her son home.

“One,” Theon repeated softly, careful to keep his voice even and emotionless, like the Three-Eyed Bran.

“Yet mine Uncle Victarion has three wives,” Theon announced boldly, conveniently forgetting to qualify that they were Nuncle Victarion’s salt wives, so more akin to mistresses than anything else.

Lady Catelyn clutched at the high neckline of her dress in horror. As though she was attempting to ward off Theon’s blasphemous notions, and keep his foul words from reaching her breast. Ned Stark stiffened at her side, no doubt equally disturbed by the reminder of the Targaryens and their disgusting practices of polygamy and incest.

“Three wives?” Lady Catelyn repeated faintly.

Theon knew if he did not blurt out his next words, she would soon recover her wits and send the children from the room. Much as Cersei Lannister had with her own children when at Winterfell, whenever Lord Tyrion’s japes grew too ribald. How bizarre that Catelyn and Cersei should have so much in common, for two women so diametrically opposed, in the wars to come.

“Aye, because we keep to our own ways on the Iron Islands,” Theon confirmed blithely, “He had a fourth wife, but he beat her to death with his bare fists, for laying with his brother; mine Uncle Euron.”

Robb spit out his drink in shock, water dribbling sloppily down his chin.

“Seven hells,” whispered Ned, a rare curse in female company.

“He would have done the same to Euron, would it not have made him a kinslayer.” Theon finished his tale of woe without flourish, patient and calm as he nearly always was.

“No man is more accursed in the eyes of gods and men, than a kinslayer,” Benjen spat out immediately.

“Not even a kingslayer? Or an oathbreaker? Or a man who sunders guest right?” Theon questioned softly.

“No,” said Benjen shortly.

Were Theon’s own crimes therefore still a shade less black than the worst men that had ever breathed in Westeros? He doubted it very deeply.

“Again, our laws differ,” said Theon with a lazy shrug, “Euron gave his sickly brothers, mine Uncles Harlon and Robin, the gift of mercy, when they were but boys. Younger than I am now.”

No one dared to speak at that, not even to curse or implore the gods. Theon’s eyes flickered from aghast Lady Catelyn, to solemn Ned, to revolted Benjen, before settling on scared Robb. He always returned to Robb, in the end. 

“Nuncle Harlon was my grandfather’s heir,” Theon explained, “and Greyscale turned his mouth to stone, so he could not breathe through it. Nor eat, nor drink. He would have slowly starved to death, in malnourished agony, were it not for mine Uncle.”

Ned Stark’s hand flexed atop the table, his fists unclenching at Theon’s justification. Was it an excuse or an explanation for Euron’s madness? Theon did not wish to stare into that particular abyss to linger long enough to find out. It mattered not.

“Nuncle Euron will return to Pyke to kill my father too, someday,” Theon said calmly, “But mercy will not be in his heart then.”

Utter silence followed this dire proclamation.

“Where is he now?” Robb demanded shrilly, finally breaking through the spell of silence.

“Essos,” replied Theon, “Where he has ever been, since my lord father cast him out for bedding Aunt Selyse.”

“The gods will curse him,” Lady Catelyn warned, glaring at Jon, as though she suspected he was about to leap up and stab Robb right there at the dinner table.

“The Drowned God has blessed Euron all the long days of his life,” Theon countered, “With a dozen healthy sons, a fleet of galleys, many wives and riches. He has travelled the world, reaping even in the Shadow city of Asshai, and he has lived to speak of it. I do not think He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves is like to turn from him now, when the hour is late.”

Lady Catelyn’s lips curls mulishly, as though she wanted to curse Theon to plunge down to the watery halls of the Drowned God right then and there, if only to make him cease talking.

“Be that as it may,” said Ned sternly, “Kinslaying is the most grave of all sin. An offense unto the old gods, and the new. And worship of the Drowned God is as ancient to your people, as the gods of forest, stream and stone are to mine.”

“And the Children that came before them.” Theon added.

Ned blinked, taken aback by Theon’s quick acquiescence. “Yes, and the Children, while they breathed.”

“They live still,” Theon replied, “Beyond the Wall. And on the Isle of Faces, amidst the God’s Eye.”

“What foolishness is this?” asked Lady Catelyn.

“It is known,” said Theon.

“Not by my people.” She countered, “And I think a Tully of Riverrun would have some insight into such matters.”

Her eyes were gleaming with ugly pride, pleased to believe she had put Theon 'in his place' as a child far beneath her in social standing and the eyes of the North.But Theon knew the only eyes that mattered were your own, and he remained unmoved.

“Nor by mine,” Benjen agreed with Lady Catelyn, “Never have I encountered the Children, in all my ranging.”

“You look, but you do not see,” Theon said softly. “It makes no matter. What care do the Children have, if you know them or no? They would likely doubt your existence too, if they did not see you through the heart trees.”

Ned Stark twitched at that, startled by Theon’s plain but passionate defence of the First Men’s oldest, staunchest beliefs. Lady Catelyn’s ire was not so easily set aside. She bristled, long having grown weary of Theon’s somewhat dismissive tone. Lady Catelyn preferred to be addressed with far more deference than Theon had ever shown her in this shadow world.

“Whether the Children ever existed is held in doubt by many maesters,” she sniffed, “Men of superior intellect and learning.”

“A maester once tended to mine Uncle Urrigon,” began Theon, but he was interrupted by a curious Robb, who squeaked;

“How many Uncles do you have?”

“My father was one of nine sons,” Theon responded immediately.

“Nine?” mouthed Robb in wonder, almost without sound. Theon promptly returned to his tale.

“He lost a couple of fingers, in the Finger Dance game,” Theon continued, “And my grandfather’s third wife, who brought a maester from the green lands with her, had the boy tended to. The maester sewed Urri’s fingers back on, thinking they would heal.”

Ned and Benjen winced, while Lady Catelyn turned green. The adults had swiftly realised the outcome of this particularly grim tale.

“When my lord father returned from fighting for House Baratheon in Robert's Rebellion, Urri’s whole arm had been lopped off in an effort to save him. But it was far too late. He drank the sweet milk of the poppy and never woke again.”

Robb swallowed thickly, eyes wide in intrigued horror. “Whatever happened to that maester?”

“My father cut off his fingers,” said Theon, “And ordered my grandfather’s wife to sew them back on. _He_ was given no milk of the poppy. He died in agony, writhing in insanity.”

Lady Catelyn took a very long gulp from her wine cup. Theon returned to his stew, as stoic as ever.

 

 

maiden

_innocence_

 

 

Theon watched impassively as Jon and Robb clattered about with their wooden swords, intrepid in their efforts to please him. Theon had not anticipated that in little over a year, since he had been 'reinstalled' in Winterfell, that Jon would begin to toddle about after him. With a light of fervour in his eyes, as Robb had always done. Robb had ever looked up to Theon. He was like an older brother to Robb, full of useful if mischievous wisdom. But now that Theon was far less playful, Jon was intrigued by him also. It probably helped that Theon hadn’t yet named him for a bastard. He was in fact ignoring Jon’s birth entirely. Theon knew now that it mattered not where a man originated from, but what he chose to do with the curse of life his parents had ‘gifted’ him.

 _We are all mired in the muck together,_ Theon knew, _what did it matter if your parents said some poxy words before they fucked?_

Theon tutted at their continued disregard for proper footwork, calling a halt to their bout, so he could nudge Jon’s stance wider with his foot. Jon shuffled about as per Theon’s direction, without complaint.

All the Stark children looked upon him with awe now. Arya and Bran were still too young to much care about anyone, but they followed their siblings, and the three eldest seemed to adore him. Sansa kept attempting to crown Theon with wreaths of daisies, which he was not always quick enough to prevent. He tried to remain stern and expressionless, at all times. But it was difficult, when Sansa giggled sweetly, and called him her 'lord knight'. She was the only one Theon would consent to play childish games for, despite his disgust for falsehoods. Sansa protested too sweetly that Theon alone must be her Dragonknight, when they played Monsters and Maidens, for him to ever deny her. In this way she had wrapped him securely about her finger, even moreso than Robb.

Jon’s eighth nameday was almost upon them; it would pass by with scant attention as usual. Two days past, Theon had overheard Jon kneeling at the heart tree, mumbling to himself about a new bow. That was easily done. Last year, Theon had gifted Jon a hand-carved direwolf; but it was of little practical use, except in preventing scrolls from rolling back on themselves. But he had coin enough for a nice commission. Though in truth Theon had been skilled enough as an adult to carve the bow himself. But he was no fletcher or arrowsmith; he required Mikken for that.

Theon also doubted his tiny hands would be conducive to carving the full bow at this age. He decided instead to ask Winterfell’s bowyer, Gared, to allow Theon time to whittle in the decoration, before it was varnished. Cutting and carving a full bow, from trunk to weapon, was challenge for another time perhaps. Thus Theon spent his evenings in quiet seclusion. Whittling intricate runes of the First Men and woven knots together along the wood, by candlelight. It was a far cry from sneaking into the kitchens with Robb to pinch sweetmeats and slices of pork pie.

Mikken had raised his brows when Theon made his request. Especially taken by surprise, when he learnt who was to be the recipient of the arrowheads. Theon asked if Ned Stark or any other man had already sought a bow for Jon, and at the denial, repeated his request. He had good coin for the work, so Mikken made no more protest. Theon had no doubt he would speak to Lord Stark about it, however.

Duly, Theon was called to the Lord of Winterfell’s solar. He had been there many a time, though he did not recall being chastised when he was quite so young. Ned eyed him uneasily, obviously unsure what to make of him. Theon was unlike any child he had encountered, unless men were routinely pressed into the former boyhood bodies to relive their mistakes.

Over the past year, Theon had come to consider the possibility he was not actually dead, and under the dominion of the Lord of the Seven Hells. After the sennights turned to months and still no demons materialised, nor melted from the visages of his dead former companions, it seemed like a thing worth considering. Theon liked it not. It was far easier to accept his death as a final, permanent solution for his dreary, uninspiring life. Better to know that Robb and the other Starks were shades of the children he had known, and not their true selves, returned to their uncorrupted state. That way, there was no chance that Theon could corrode their good natures, like spoilt fruit, damaged by his thick, clumsy hands.

 _I’d rather be dead,_ thought Theon, _so dead I shall remain. Dead men make no apologies._

Life was far less complex when he navigated it as a ghost. So Theon jutted out his chin and prepared to take his eternal punishment as a man, gifted today by Lord Stark, and countless others in the days to come. Yet the tired lord had no reprimand for him.

“Theon,” he said softly, “Mikken tells me you have commissioned a bow for Jon.”

“He’s good enough to warrant his own,” Theon said immediately.

“So I hear,” Ned chuckled, with warmth he had rarely exuded toward Theon, in death or in life.

“Ser Rodrik has been singing your praises in the yard since the minute you stepped into it,” Ned revealed, and paused as if to give Theon chance to be affected by his words.

Theon blinked.

With an awkward clearing of his throat, Ned continued; “He suggested that you might wish to squire for him.”

Theon knew Rodrik had a squire. A weaselly boy Ramsay had put to the sword when he sacked Winterfell. Theon grimaced at the reminder, but did not turn away from it. Ned’s hesitant smile dimmed.

“The idea does not appeal to you?” he prompted.

“Would I be a knight, after?” Theon asked contemplatively. He had never considered such an option for himself, before this very moment. First Men and Ironborn had seldom knights, since knighthood was another aspect of the Faith, which was little loved in those Kingdoms.

“If you wish it,” Ned said, his subdued grin returning with gusto.

Theon considered the prospect from each angle he could discover. Such a title might give him some legitimacy in the North, though it would only push him further away from the Ironborn. Like every other choice he made, it mattered not for Theon personally. But a knight at Robb’s back would command a greater respect than another mere guard.

“I do wish it,” Theon said, and clarified his reply no further.

“I have seen you in the yard for myself,” Ned continued, “And I agree whole-heartedly with Rodrik’s assessment. Your skill guiding my sons is also evident. Have you ever considered training as a master-at-arms?”

Theon blinked again, this time clenching his fingers into his leather breeches. He did not wish to be startled, and forced himself to remain calm. It did not matter what his answer was. He was as hated by the gods now as he had ever been.

“Nuncle Dagmer is the master-at-arms for House Greyjoy,” he said quietly. “He’s very skilled.”

“Then you are a credit to him,” Ned praised him gently. Theon wanted to brush it away, because words were wind, but found it was harder to relinquish than he expected.

“Ser Rodrik wishes me to train as his replacement, when the time comes?” asked Theon.

“Perhaps,” said Ned, “For a time, before you return home.” 

Theon’s tentative interest shuttered, his eyes turning bleak and dark.

“I can never _go home_ ,” Theon insisted, “I am fated to die here, in these green lands.”

Ned winced, quickly realising his mistake, but it was already too late. Theon leapt to his feet, gripping his fury with a leash, lest it whip out and sting them both.

“Theon-”

“I’ll do the squiring,” Theon said through gritted teeth, with eyes that flashed with odium, “And the mastery training. Yet speak no more of my _home_ , I beg you, my lord. For I have no home.”

Ned regarded him with wary, saddened eyes. His fingers twitched, and at length he reached out a single hand and placed it on Theon’s sharp shoulder. He afforded his ‘ward’ a single friendly squeeze of his hand.

“Alright, lad,” he said softly, in a voice simmering with regret.

 

 

crone

_wisdom_

 

 

“Blessings on your nameday, Jon,” said Theon, carefully setting down his bundle.

Jon turned to him, thanks on his lips, and his eyes bulged in shock at the size of the parcel Theon placed before him. Theon had to give Jon a decisive nod to confirm the bundle was a gift for him. Theon had carefully wrapped the lovely new bow in oilcloth to protect it. Jon unwrapped it hesitantly, tentative. Theon suspected Jon was worried it was a trick, or else something undesirable. The tiny boy gaped when he revealed the freshly lacquered bow, his slight fingers swiping over it without making contact. As though he was frightened it might vanish underneath his touch.

“That’s no mere armoury bow,” said Robb in awe, tinged with an edge of jealousy. “Far in advance of Gared’s usual work.”

Theon threw him a quelling look. His affection, such as he was capable of feeling, was for chiefly Robb. But Jon had long commanded his respect. The 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch who had let the wildlings through the wall, to save them from becoming members of the Night King’s army. The man who won the Battle of the Bastards and been crowned King in the North. Who had been resurrected by a shadowbinder from Asshai. Jon was already a legendary leader. Theon found it troubled him more than he expected, to see the little incarnation of Jon trodden on by Lady Catelyn, and dismissed by the men. Theon wanted to command that they showed their King more respect, despite false deference being yet another wasteful lie.

At last Jon grasped the bespoke bow, lifting it aloft to study the elegant runes Theon had slaved over.

“I’ve never seen Gared carve like this,” said Jon curiously, turning to Theon with wide grey eyes like the honest, rolling waves off the shores of Pyke.

“I’m the author of those,” Theon admitted modestly. “I’ve a little skill with the whittling blade.”

“Little?” Jon repeated, astonished. “This is too fine for me, Lord Theon.”

“It is no more than you warrant,” Theon chided, “You’ve earned this bow, Jon. You deserve it.”

Jon swallowed thickly, looking to his lord father for guidance. Ned offered him a solemn nod, his gaze quickly rippling to Theon, ever puzzled, before softening as it settled back on his son. Thrilled a his father’s permission, Jon poked at the small pile of arrows Theon had commissioned.

“I don’t know these tips,” Jon admitted, “They’re not iron.”

“No,” said Theon, “It’s dragonglass. It kills wights.”

Jon frowned, clearly unfamiliar with the term. Lady Catelyn shook her head in despair, clearly having decided that Theon was beyond redemption. She was more right than she knew.

“Wights?” Robb repeated, lifting one of the arrows close to his vulnerable face.

“Careful,” said Theon, “They’re sharp.”

Robb rolled his eyes, but he put the arrow back anyway.

“I know,” he scoffed, “But what’s a wight?”

“The undead thralls of the Others,” said Theon. “They’re festering Beyond the Wall, in the Lands of Always Winter. But when the White Walkers advance South again, the dead will march beside them as slaves to their will.”

The Starks were now well used to silly Theon Greyjoy, and his occasional wild proclamations. They paid his declaration no mind, other than Robb and Jon exchanging a look of amusement. Then Jon launched out of his seat and threw his arms about Theon’s waist, thanking him profoundly. Theon patted Jon on the back awkwardly.

“You must swear to save these special arrows, Jon,” Theon warned him, “Keep them for their intended adversary only.”

The boy did so, always keen to prove how maturely he could act. Theon was mollified, even though he knew Jon did not believe his warnings to hold weight.

“Your stories are better than Old Nan’s, Theon,” said Robb.

“They hold the same truth,” Theon replied, which was as much pride in himself, that he was ever prepared to voice.

Robb might have worried that he would not receive so fine a gift on his next nameday, but Theon had chosen that particular present long ago. When that day next rolled along, it came with the usual celebrations. An heir warranted a feast, with the uncommon addition of mummers from Lys, since Robb’s following nameday was of course his tenth, that next year.

He unwrapped Theon’s gift with badly concealed glee, and his face fell when it was only a direwolf-head clasp, for decorating or clinching his cloaks together. Theon watched Robb visibly struggle to swallow back his disappointment. At ten-and-three and eight-and-twenty, Theon knew Robb’s face better than anything. His little lord wondered what Jon had done to warrant a bow, when Robb gained nothing so grand; only the type of boring gift Wyman Manderly would send from White Harbour.

“This is my reserve gift,” Theon revealed, allowing himself a small smirk, “Should the main prove unpalatable to my lord.”

Robb beamed, wide and blatant. He stopped short of begging for his second gift, by only a fraction of hesitance. Theon noted the younger boy was practically bouncing upon his feet.

“Stop teasing, Theon!” he whined, a rare charge to place before Theon’s feet, unlike in their first childhood.

“As you command, Robb,” Theon replied, taking a knee. He unsheathed his sword and laid it on the floor between their feet.

The chatter about them became subdued as members of the crowded hall began to take notice of Theon’s position. The hall was not so full that they could not clearly be seen across the room, by the guests which had gathered for the occasion. The growing silence did not disturb them. The Starks of Winterfell were well used to Theon’s strange customs now. But he continued to find new ways to astound and baffle their men. Theon was used to their stares.

“To you, Robb of House Stark, I pledge my faith. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. Be merciful to the weak, help the helpless, serve justice for all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by summer and winter. I swear it by salt and rock.”

Robb’s eyes might never have been so wide, nor so blue. Theon slowly drowned within them, as he waited for the acceptance or denial of his oath. From the other side of the room, Ned Stark was marching toward them with a straight back. Theon had purposefully waited until his attention was elsewhere, so that Robb could hear his oath in entirety, without interruption.

“I can’t swear you to House Stark,” Robb said slowly, “As that is the right of my father.”

Theon remained silent, watching as Robb carefully pieced together his intended meaning.

“But you did not pledge yourself to House Stark,” mused the little boy that remained his only King, “Only to me.”

Theon inclined his head, waiting patiently. Ned joined them, his expression grim. But he was too late to draw Robb aside and bid him to make light of this. Robb was old enough to understand the severity of Theon’s actions. Sworn to Robb’s service, the young lord could order Theon about like a common errand boy if he so chose. It was a tremendous amount of power to place in a boy of ten’s hands. Robb was solemn and controlled as he regarded his strange, unpredictable Ironborn companion.

“I accept your oath, Theon of House Greyjoy,” said Robb softly, “and I vow that you shall always have a place at my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Robb smiled then, bright and blinding, and heart-rendingly beautiful.

“Arise,” he said softly, and waited for Theon to do so, before he tugged him forward into a tight embrace.

Theon closed his eyes, and for a long moment, he was blissful and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show only readers- all of Theon's stories about his family are from book canon. Theon's family really are THAT savagely brutal, and I didn't even mention the child abuse. Fucking Greyjoys, man.


	4. [the Seven who are One: unknown aspects]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It is possible for the good, even the saintly, to be subjected to a power of evil which is too great for them to overcome - in themselves. In this case, the cause (not the ‘hero’) was triumphant, because by the exercise of pity, mercy, and forgiveness of injury, a situation was produced in which all was redressed and disaster averted._
> 
> ***

 stranger

_death_

 

Theon shivered in his thin summer cloak. Lately the chill upon the wind had turned bitter, frost biting at the heels of the misty morning clouds. But he was resolute in his apathy toward the onset of autumn. Lady Stark was round with Rickon, and she had long washed her hands of Theon. He had gained a reputation for being ‘half-mad’ due in part to her spiteful detraction of him. Now, she barely spared Theon a glance. She strode through the Godswood purposefully, on her way to the sept. No doubt to implore to the gods on behalf of her child.

Theon wanted to traipse after her and tell her it was a pointless endeavour. But he strained not to be a hypocrite. If he himself did not refrain from undertaking futile action, how could he ask Lady Catelyn to do the same? So Theon remained where he was, slumped on the ground like a sagging sack of flour, whilst Sansa twittered gaily beside him. Theon had not recalled her to be quite so merry as a girl. He remembered a little lady who was taught never to laugh too loud, or jape or run about, and rarely did she oppose those teachings. But he had noticed Septa Mordane had less of a grip on her in this waking death they shared.

Sansa was too gleeful about singing sweet songs for her siblings to pout over Jon’s inclusion. She hadn’t been as successfully steered from him. She oft tripped up in her attempts to keep Jon at arm’s length, revealing to everyone that her affection for him ran deep. Lady Catelyn worked her teeth like a grindstone whenever she saw it. Bran and Arya suffered for it; being smaller and yet confined to the nursery, she exercised her control over them instead. Rarely did the smallest Starks move about the castle without their mother.

Sansa threaded her daisies together elegantly, weaving together a thick crown.

“That’s not for my head,” Theon warned her, “I’m no Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Sansa sighed dreamily, no doubt reminded of the supposed wonders of tourneys, at least how they were written in songs. There was generally a lot more bowing and ribbon-passing in the books, whereas Theon, Robb and Jon had seen a man lose an eye at the last melee they attended. Full tournaments, with lists and hay targets, did not exist in the North. The Northmen scorned playing almost as much as Theon did. But a melee was deemed acceptable enough, being a mere step up away from sparring. And if rowdy men found a convenient, unfortunate tree to fill with arrows and quarrels, as they sought to best one another, that was overlooked.

“Do you think I could be, someday?” she sighed dreamily, “Like Queen Naerys was for her brother Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, or Lady Barba Bolton-”

“Or your aunt, Lady Lyanna Stark,” Theon chipped in, “The day Rhaegar Targaryen lost his wits over her, and insulted his royal wife in front of the entire court. He rode past his poor wife, the mother of his children, to crown a girl of five-and-ten. A terrible move, both politically and socially.”

“That was a hateful thing to say,” Sansa scolded him. “I spoke of beauty, and you reply with my family’s pain.”

“Maybe so,” said Theon, “But at least I spoke the truth of it. A man cannot let down his guard, even when crowning a pretty girl.”

Sansa stuck her nose into the air, a solid indication she would now refuse to speak to him for a solid five minutes as punishment. A common enough occurrence that Theon knew the routine well.

Theon occupied the small respite from her girlish attentions by watching a raven hopping from branch to branch in the heart tree. He was not sorry for his words. He often countered Sansa’s sweet trilling with his more brutally honest assessment. She had come to learn that he would never lie to her, despite the fuming of her parents and the men who threatened to beat him for alluding to sex or violence around their gentle lady. Theon tempered his words, mindful of her age; but he did not lie.

At length, she strove to forgive him. Ignoring their previous topic, Sansa asked him after the health of his family. Theon replied with a grimace. He had lately received a letter from his mother’s sister, Gwynesse Harlaw. Aunt Gwyn had decided to invite herself to Winterfell, after hearing rumours that her brother Rodrik was considering naming Theon for his heir.

 _I am the eldest of my father’s surviving issue,_ she had written in her curt letter. _Ten Towers is mine. I shall decide which green boy deserves to seat the Gull’s Tower and command our ships. Expect me as soon as the Drowned God permits._

She had yet to arrive, and Theon was already dreading it. Aunt Gwyn was like a dog denied a bone. Beautiful and tenacious, she was rabidly devout to the Drowned God. She had even trained to become a priestess of the Drowned Men, an exclusively male order. When her father bid her to cease, and marry his bannerman, she spat on the sand. His aunt had then chained herself to a ship, rather than allow Aeron Greyjoy, the Damphair and the High Priest of the Drowned Men, to anoint her with sea water. This way a marriage could not be sealed; not without some form of salt water. She even threatened to cremate her father’s bones when he died, if he persisted. And so she remained a maid, and her younger sister Alannys wed the man who was to become his father, in her stead.

When Theon explained this to Sansa, her small, pale brow creased.

“What does it matter, if a man’s body is burnt after death?” she asked, “Tullys of Riverrun are given their funeral at the Trident. A man's body is laid out on a boat, and set alight by an arrow loosed by his eldest son.”

“A perfectly natural funeral for a green lander,” Theon agreed, “Especially one that followed the Seven. But death or funeral by fire is heresy for an Ironborn.”

“But why?” Sansa pressed.

Theon smiled at her gently. He had cultivated a tendency in all the Starks to keep prodding him with questions, if they wanted more explanations for his cryptic words. He never volunteered too much at first; dripping only a bead of nectar at a time, so the honey bee was compelled to return.

“When the First Men came to Westeros over the Arm of Dorne,” Theon began, “The First Ironborn had already risen from the watery kingdom beneath the sea, to make their names known with fire and blood and song.”

He paused to allow her time to consider what such a thing might mean, with all she now knew of his savage kin.

“We hold dominion over all the waters of the world, in the Drowned God’s name,” he continued, “He made us in his likeness, to reave and carve out kingdoms, to batter our enemies against sharp rock until they break. We are of salt and rock and water. Not fire. Fire snuffs out everything our Drowned lord gave us.”

Sansa prodded at her lower lip with one delicate finger as she parsed his meaning on her own. It was essential Theon did not batter the children with his knowledge. They would hear, but not understand. Not unless they worked to a conclusion themselves, on whatever information he chose to impart.

“No man of the sea would want to burn; it is the antithesis of water,” she said carefully, glancing at Theon beneath her lashes, as though to check her findings.

Theon bit the inside of his cheek, recalling her adult self looking at him with similarly hooded eyes. Her meaning had been very different then. Sansa was yet a girl. She was too demure to understand the danger of giving her looks too freely. Theon resolved to have Robb speak about it to her, discreetly. Theon would not humiliate her for her innocent affection toward him.

“No true son of the sea would want to rot beneath the ground, either,” Theon agreed, “Which is where I differ from my kin. I don’t want to drown, nor be tossed into the waves when my skin is cold in death.”

Sansa shivered.

“No,” she agreed, “Better to lie still beneath the ground, with your kin, as Starks do.”

“I do not forsake all Ironborn customs,” Theon said, “It is never wise to desert the ways of your people entire.”

Sansa eyed him sceptically. He knew how enamoured she was with her rosy view of life in the South. Lady Catelyn had been filling her beautiful daughter’s head with the best pieces; chivalry, warmth and fertile lands.

“Will you take many wives then?” she asked, “As the Targaryens did?”

“It is not the same,” Theon immediately denied. “Ironborn men may have only one freeborn rock wife. Her sons inherit first, over his others.”

“But Ironborn men do take more than one wife?” Sansa pressed, fascinated. Theon wondered if her fascination was driven by revulsion or some other, unnamed emotion. The light of eager thrill was in her eyes. Only she could make him playful enough to provide her scandalous gossip.

 _She is still my girl, even now,_ Theon thought, _it is little wonder I am powerless against her charms._

“Aye,” he replied to her question, “One rock wife, and many salt wives. So long as the unions are blessed by a Drowned Man, none of the babes from those beds are bastards. They take their father’s trueborn name.”

Sansa frowned. “But surely… I thought Ironborn bastards were called Pyke?”

“They are,” Theon confirmed. That was part of the reason he had chosen not to be known as ‘Theon of Pyke’, lest the name be shortened and misunderstood.

“And yet…?” said Sansa.

“Those are the children born from unwedded unions,” He said promptly, “Their mothers being kitchen maids and unhappy thralls, mostly.”

He did not mention the Ironborn belief in the sanctity of rape, as a way of honouring their god. It was his people’s most repulsive custom, the apex of many foul traditions. Sansa was silent for a very long time, her fingers working her daisy diadem decisively. When it was completed, she placed it onto her own fiery red crown.

“It seems kinder, somehow,” she said quietly, startling Theon enough that he sat up and looked deep into her blue eyes.

“Taking more than one wife,” Sansa clarified, “Naming all the children for true.”

Theon knew she was thinking of Jon. She loved him better in death, it seemed. Theon was pleased to know it.

 

 

 I thought I was the Warrior and she was the Maid.  
But all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze.

_any god in a storm_

 

 

"Care to spar with me, sister?" Theon asked, plainly.

Yara gave him an unfathomable look. She had waltzed into Winterfell with Aunt Gwyn's retinue completely without explanation, having reveled no intention to visit and having sent no word beforehand. Theon had been stunned when she rode in on the back of a bay mare, bold as always.

Her name had been the first word to fall from his lips, unbidden, in an uncharacteristic display of surprise. They'd clasped forearms like comrades in arms, as they had been at the end of his life. Then Theon had given in to sentiment, and drawn her close into a true embrace. She seemed baffled but pleased, and did not shame him by immediately teasing him for his showy affection.

Aunt Gwyn was another tale entire. She stomped up close to assess him from head to toe, before grunting out a dismissive greeting. Theon shared a commiserating look with Yara, who had been forced to put up with their Aunt's company all the way from the Islands. It had taken only days for a comfortable familiarity to be struck between Theon and his sister. Which was for the better, as their belligerent Aunt remained distant. Theon was unaffected by her annoyance with him, knowing Gwynesse only wanted to take a measure of him. It was a hard thing, to relinquish your birthright. Theon knew it well.

He had spoken to his young and yet plain sister at length about it. Her wild Ironborn beauty hadn't bloomed yet, but Theon saw shades of it on her young face. Yara would never be sung about, like Sansa or Cersei. But she would have her fair share of suitors. She had a husband by the time Theon died, and most likely would again should his shadow life last as long.

Her tiny, skinny self regarded him warily, perhaps suspecting he had mocking words hiding at the back of his throat. But when none materialised, she raised a challenging brow, and followed him to the yard.

Robb was sparring with Jon when they arrived. Theon no longer practised so regularly, as the green boys did, not since he had been knighted at three-and-ten. Yara's eyes had near fallen from her head, the first time someone had named him for 'Ser Theon' in her hearing. Theon had merely offered her a rare smirk in explanation, and not allowed the conversation to be steered toward his knighthood. He didn't want her to question his new sigil, knowing it would make her furious.

Theon had chosen to abandon the arms of his father's House almost utterly. He was no artist, but he had been able to render a rough sketch in charcoal. Enough for the painter to design his new coat. When the scroll was complete, Theon almost wept, overwhelmed by a dangerous flood of emotion. With tentative fingers, he beheld his heraldry, and was pleased.

A kraken's single black arm, emerging from the honest, pale grey surf, to pet a grey and black direwolf pup with glowing golden eyes, against a hazy lilac sky. Theon had described Grey Wind's likeness as best as he was able, struggling to find adequate words. It would be years before anyone was able to see the resemblance, when the direwolves were eventually found. By then, Theon's coat of arms would be well-established. To one and all, it would be as though the coat came first, entirely unrelated, save for the obvious connotation regarding his position as Robb's sworn sword.

"It's been a while since I sparred with axes," Theon said, "That's your preferred weapon, is it not?"

"Swords will do," Yara shrugged, "I can trounce you in any discipline, little brother."

"Axes is fine enough," Theon said, without rising to her bait, "If you'll accompany me to the armoury?"

Yara did not dress herself in weapons that could be seen on her person, though Theon had no doubt they were there, in concealment. She consented to follow him, and they found adequate arms. As they stood before one another, they were taken note of; Northmen who had come to respect Theon for teaching their sons and grandsons how to swing a blade. They belittled him far less, now that he wore the title of 'ser' and had the power to send their green boys to scrub armour for hours if they pissed him off.

From the corner of his eye, Theon noted Jon call a halt to his bout with Robb. Both boys were more eager to watch Theon spar with a girl, than in their own well-matched fight against one another. Then Theon took his full attention to his sister, and the struggle commenced.

Theon and Yara were well-matched also. She might have been stronger than him, had he remained the skinny youth of his life, but Theon in death had put on muscle, training in arms day and night. Yara was taller, older, and carried more bulk in her legs. But Theon's arms and trunk were thicker, and his footwork was more precise. Her technique was more rudimentary, his sister having learnt in actual skirmishes against men who wanted to see her in pain. By contrast, Ser Rodrik directed the lads in the perfect placement, and Theon had managed to adopt a little of both styles, having lived a life to adulthood.

He pressed her back, but she did not allow it for long, punching him in the stomach when he left himself open. Theon twitched but did not crumple forward. Her gloved fists were no contest against Ramsay's gauntlets. He managed to get a foot behind her ankle, sending her sprawling into the mud.

Theon offered her the twitch of a brow, his axe at her neck. She scowled up at him, and when he offered her a hand up she knocked it aside. With vigour, she spun her legs to gain momentum and leapt up in a crouch.

"Again," she demanded, and Theon offered her a shallow bow, stepping back several paces to allow her room.

They squared off for a long moment before she jumped at him, the wooden handles of their weapons locking as they met. Theon directed them left, while she fought for the right; his strength won, and she grunted as he drove her weapon back. He twisted his arm as he brought it down sharply, in an effort to make her loose her grip. Yara hissed as her wrist was pressed beyond the point of comfort, but she did not relent and let go. Instead she allowed Theon to lean close enough to clock him in the face with her elbow. He reeled back, their axes separating, bringing his dominant arm up almost too slowly to catch her next swing at him.

He absorbed the blow with a groan of pain, iron-flavoured blood running into his mouth. She might have broken his nose, but in the heat of battle he could not be sure. They were too evenly matched, and he could see she knew it. After separating once more, Theon skittered back several paces, and tossed his axe aside.

Yara gave him a hard look. Theon shrugged, opening his arms, as though offering her to rush at him. She threw aside her own weapon, and then did so. They met in a frenzy of fists. She punched him in the stomach, as he yanked back her loose hair to return the favour.

"Seven hells!" someone yelled, but Theon could not tell if it was Robb, or another youth.

Yara spat out blood, her chin ghastly with thick dribbles of it. Then she bit Theon on the ear, just as he shoved her to the ground. He shouted as he felt the flesh tear, but he did not release his hold on her. They rolled in the mud, ending with Yara kneeling on his chest. A hand went toward his throat, but Theon reared up to strike her violently with his forehead. As she had done to him when he rescued her from Euron's ship, the _Silence_. Yara collapsed as he too had, undone by the move.

"Enough!" roared Ser Rodrik, charging toward them both.

He stood between them with his meaty fists on his hips, red-faced and panting in fury.

Yara lay panting up at the rotund old knight, annoyance plain on her face that he had interrupted before she could best Theon.

"You're to set an example for the boys, Ser Theon," Rodrik chided him, "With the arts of war. Not engage in tavern brawls like a common whoremonger!"

"This one's clearly never been to the Isles," said Yara. "There's nought _but_ whoremongers."

Theon snorted, almost a chuckle. He rarely laughed outright, and she offered him a bloody grin at the sound. This time, it was her that offered him a hand up. For a moment, when Theon looked up at her from his position prone on the muddy cobbles, he saw her adult self. When she was so grateful that he had finally shaken off his cowardice, long enough to rescue her.

He knew then, that she loved him better in death too.

Since a small Ironborn contingent had been allowed as guests in Winterfell, accompanying Aunt Gwyn and Yara, Theon had been uncomfortably reminded of his small crew. The men he had fought beside to rescue Yara followed him ever after, accepting him as their Captain. Among the Ironborn, each Captain was a king to his crew. Theon had taken a far deeper pride in their trust than the arrogant posturing of his youth, when he insisted fealty from men who did not like or trust him. They had followed him to their deaths in Winterfell's Godswood. He had lived long enough to see each of them fall.

But these men were not his. Yet they did not look at him with scorn, as his father and sister and uncles' men all had. Theon in death was humble and honest, and branded savage for it. Their hard ways were more comforting to him than he expected; these hardened men seemed to appreciate Theon's honesty better than Northmen. Ironic, in that Northmen were so proud of their reputation of the most blunt and honourable men, versus Southron trickery and cunning. Strange, how refusing to coat the brutality of the violent world with sweet honey was seen as barbarous to Lady Catelyn and her ilk.

There was no love lost between her and Aunt Gwyn, who seemed like a female version of Theon's new incarnation, more than anything. She was honest and unimpressed by everything, and pointed out the futility of many an action that displeased her. Theon was glad that the Ironborn wanted to accompany a hunt, for the chance to get away from her.

It was when he returned that the trouble began. To Theon's dire horror, Robb told him of an invitation his father had received, whilst the two of them had been hunting. An invitation to the Dreadfort. Theon had avoided such at one other instance when the opportunity arose. Thankfully, visits to the Dreadfort were scarce indeed for House Stark, who had never been on good terms with their Bolton rivals. Theon had counselled Robb against going in the last instance. He reminded Robb of the Bolton's history of skinning Starks. The boy was unmoved. Silly Theon and his silly stories did not hold weight against Lord Stark, and his insistence that his heir come to know his bannermen well.

Theon had sworn then, that he would never set foot inside that accursed castle again, so long as he breathed the shadow air. He might no longer live, but if Winterfell was one of his Seven Heavens, the Dreadfort was surely all Seven of his Hells. It was the place of his undoing. The walls held his screams, and the muck upon the floors contained his shame. He was torn and shredded, carved and clawed away, piece by piece, in those dungeons and halls, until there was nothing of Theon Greyjoy left. Only a shambling creature named for his stench. Theon did not allow himself to even think of the name Ramsay had given him. To do so would be to fall headlong back into that madness he had clawed himself out from, with missing fingers, dignity, and the ability to father children. The Dreadfort housed his every trauma, and all the terrifying nightmares that followed.

Robb could not possibly fathom the magnitiude of his request, when he asked Theon to accompany him. He thought it a jape, when Theon reminded him of the previous denial, years passed, and the Stark-skin cloaks.

If Theon looked upon Ramsay's face again, he feared he would put his own eyes out. And that would be insanity indeed; how would he know where Ramsay's blows and knives were coming from, if he did so? The only aspect of Ramsay more frightening than his living self was the demonic dead version that awaited him in the bowels of the Dreadfort. If Theon left Winterfell for that accursed place, he would never return, even if his flesh did.

In his odd way, Theon endeavoured to explain this. Robb merely thought him touched in the head, judging by the looks he gave.

"You're building a mountain from a mole's hill of dirt," he said cheerfully, clapping Theon on the arm. "It's not so scary as you imagine it, I promise. They do a good pigeon pie, if the cook remains the same. Lord Bolton is stern, but many men are."

Theon knew he spoke of Roose, but still he shuddered as Ramsay's cruel smile swam before his eyes.

"I'll die before I willingly walk into that godless place," Theon insisted.

Robb frowned. Theon rarely spoke of the gods; in oath or in curse, and he never swore by them. Still, he brushed Theon's words aside, an action he would later greatly regret.

Theon endeavoured to put the whole notion from his mind. He ignored all the preparations in anticipation of the journey. He did not pack. On the morning of the day they were to set off, he kept to the shadows, but Robb did not relent. He rooted Theon out, like a stubborn mule refusing to move.

"Where's your trunk?" he demanded, "Theon, we have to set off, well before noon!"

"I told you I'm not going," Theon reminded him, "All the gods and all the kings of man, could not compel me to breathe in the foul air, at that terrible castle, Robb Stark."

It was entirely the wrong sentiment to express. Robb's eyes narrowed. He had dominion over Theon, that had been willingly sceded. But Theon had never intended for it to be used against him for this. He had only ever wanted to see Robb safe from all the terrors this world would set in his path.

"I order you to accompany us, Theon," he said, "Your Aunt and sister are both coming. Jon and Sansa too. We'll hunt in the Bolton's forest, and feast on his wine. It will be a jape, you'll see, and you'll wonder what you were ever so leery of."

For a quiet, melancholy moment that threatened to last for eternity, Theon drank in Robb's beloved face, sweeter than any wine. He had wanted so badly to protect his little king, and he duly said so.

"I swore myself to you, so that I may shield your back from the evils of this world," Theon said softly.

Robb frowned. "I know it, and I am ever grateful."

" _You know not_ what you ask of me," Theon said, "What demons live in the Dreadfort-"

"Theon...?" Sansa interrupted them, advancing to stand beside her brother, with a puzzled look of worry. Her pale fingers twisted into her skirts, because she could not reach out to comfort him in public. Yet Theon felt the phantom touch of her gentle hands, remembered how she trembled when they embraced. Her touch was always more hesitant than Robb's here, but Ramsay had torn away the useless veils of modesty and abnegation from the Lady of Winterfell.

"What's this about?" demanded Yara, appearing alongside their Aunt.

Theon ignored them both. He spoke only for Robb's ears, though his words were heard by many in the yard; servants who pretended they were not eavesdropping, guardsmen as they packed the horses and carts, and their families at they stood dotted about them, glaring in confusion and concern.

"You swore never to ask of me, that which might bring me dishonour," Theon reminded him in a final plea. "I beg you; do not ask this of me, Robb."

Robb frowned. Lingering amusement no longer shone on his face. He was troubled now, and bid Jon to fetch their lord father. Theon watched Jon hungrily, as he skittered away on sure feet to do so. With a heavy heart, Theon knew it was futile. He drew a thin dirk from his belt, watching as Sansa sucked in a shocked breath as the point revealed itself. Her shoulders sagged in relief when he flipped it, offering the hilt to Robb.

"I will not go back there alive," Theon insisted.

"Go back?" repeated Yara, his sister growing in anger at her confusion.

Robb's eyes were round saucers again, and he looked a boy of seven and a King of ten-and-five all at once. Theon pressed the blade into his hand, gripping his wrist roughly in an effort to force him to take it. But Robb shuffled back, in horror and disbelief, refusing to grasp it.

"You passed this sentence, Robb." Theon barked, "You ought to be the one to swing the sword! That is your duty!"

Robb's mouth hung open as he shook his head in mortified terror, Sansa clutching his arm. She was hissing at him to do something, anything. Jon rushed back into the yard, Ned Stark bruskly on his heels. Theon had thus run out of time. He knelt and offered his throat to the boy who remained his King.

"Release me from the order," Theon pleaded, "Do not ask me to look upon the Dreadfort. My mind would not survive it."

But Robb was too confused by the madness that had descended upon his oldest friend, to do anything.

"It's only a castle," he croaked, weak and hoarse.

Theon waited a breath more.

When Robb did not relent, a single scalding tear ran down Theon's cheek. He nodded with hooded eyes, accepting his fate. Now he saw that he had only ever borrowed this time. It had been a wonderful dream. But dreams ended, and dreamers woke.

Quicker than the length of a single inhale, Theon uncoiled the razor-sharp dirk he was still grasping, and lifted it to his own throat; he had slashed the skin before the sound of Sansa's scream reached his ears. His blood was a fountain, spraying the skirts of her pale dress, misting Theon's face like scarlet freckles. Robb cried out in anguish, and his hot, clammy fingers attempting to stem the flow at Theon's gushing throat was the last thing Theon felt, before the darkness rushed up to drag him under.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwynesse Harlaw's backstory here and characterisation is my invention. Please link me to your work using the inspiration tags if you want to use it, or her personality as I have written her here or in my other works where she features. And please let me know so that I can read it! I love reading about lesser-known and lesser-loved characters!


	5. [the Drowned God who Dwells Beneath the Waves]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Can you hear the whispers all across the room? You feel their eyes all over you, like cheap perfume? You're beautiful, but misunderstood._
> 
> ***

the Drowned God who Dwells Beneath the Waves

_piracy_

 

There was no fire, only darkness, complete and entire. Theon lay still, startled to find he felt form attached to his mind, though there was no pain or pressure or sensation of any kind. He was not tired, or bruised or hungry. He simply was.

The darkness persisted until he thought to open his eyes. And immediately regretted his choice, almost losing his sanity in one blink. He squeezed his eyelids closed, but it made no odds. What is seen cannot be unseen. What was known, could not be unknown. Theon knew it well.

He winced as he bid his body to move, to rise up and crawl away from the infinite terror looming above him, but his limbs were heavy, almost paralysed, and would not adhere to his will. He lay sprawled as he had in death at Robb's feet, his throat hanging open as his lifeblood drained out.

Unable to move, Theon was forced to find another solution. He could think of none save for risking another look. Achingly slow, he opened his eyes once more, lashes fluttering as though waking from long repose.

The giants high above him continued to discuss his prone, broken body, unaffected by the crisis of sanity they inflicted upon him with their mere presence. Theon had no other word for them, save for giants. He had seen undead giants at Winterfell, but they were dwarfed in comparison to the seven monstrosities bartering over his broken flesh.

 _He is my champion,_ insisted one. She appeared a girl compared to the other hulking brutes, being shorter in stature and fair of face.

Three were male, heavy-set and strong, with long hair and deep-set eyes. The two other women were better to look upon, though one was aged and wizened. But the best of all was the youngest girl, who had spoken. The seventh creature kept its visage hidden by a cowl, and only its eyes were visible. But they were no eyes at all, only deep black hollow sockets. Its clawed hands were visible blow the shroud, more animal than man, and covered in thick fur.

Of the three women, the middle in age spoke next, reaching out with her enormous hand to place it upon the younger's shoulder.

 _There is no need to ponder,_ said the middle woman, with eyes as large as a doe and just as innocent, _the child wakes. Why not ask him to whom he sacrifices?_

 _Mother has right of it,_ the young lady agreed, _let us ask the boy._

 _We do not need to ask!_ The largest, hairiest man thundered, like Robert Baratheon come again, _I know what is in his heart. My judgement shall not be questioned by you, wife, or any other._

His wife pursed her lips, clasping her hands together at her waist. She was a perfect picture of feminine fealty. Yet Theon did not doubt for a second that her placid face cloaked cunning schemes. She was biding her time as a cunning fox, ready to hop out and savage the chickens, as soon as the farmer’s back was turned.

 _My son is the Judge in all matters of the mortals,_ came the wizened, rasping voice of the crone. The moment Theon thought of her as such, he wished he could suck in breath no longer, and turn to ash instead.

The Seven Who Were One ignored his plight entirely.

The Crone lifted a lantern aloft, casting light upon the faces of the three male gods: leaving the goddesses and the Stranger clad in shadow.

 _His patronage is mine,_ said the Father. _He has ever showed just judgement and taken charge._

 _He has shown great courage,_ argued the Warrior, _to stand against his captor, yet open his heart to the man's children._

 _He took his own life,_ boomed the third male god, the Smith. _Rather than face his enemy. His strength was greater than his courage._

 _It takes courage to face the abyss once more,_ quarrelled the Warrior; and then the gods began to row over one another, each insisting Theon had shown more examples of their own virtue.

Their clashing voices were as loud as mountains crumbling, or a brace of snow breaking free from one, to cover the world of men in an avalanche of white death. If Theon could have moved his hands, he might have pinned them to his vulnerable ears. Their voices lost all distinguishing character, becoming one featureless cacophony; a roaring clamour of raucous, screeching discord.

Theon clamped his eyes shut, his only available method of blocking out the towering monsters that besieged him. Gradually, he became aware of another sound beneath the racket. It was a gentle susurrus sound, like the honest grey waves of Pyke, relentless and everlasting. Once he noted it, Theon realised he had been listening to the noise all along, beneath the words of his newest gaolers.

A strange sensation covered him then; an eerie, clammy coldness. His fingers twitched, as his toes flexed in his boots. And yet, he could move no further than that. The chill became ice cold, and Theon realised it was damp also; a wet sensation surrounding him on all sides. It was not the gentle lap of waves so much as the sucking grasp of a sinkhole, giving way beneath him. He opened his eyes once more, just as the netherworld was swallowed by water.

He plunged down as quickly as though he had been weighted down with rocks. Water was in his mouth and nose and lungs, but it did not burn as drowning did. It was thick and viscous, closer to blood than saltwater, though it was clear as water. His hair floated about his face as he dropped, a heavy stone rushing directly to the kingdom beneath the waves.

 _Back home to my halls,_ whispered a gentler voice. _Where your forefathers, my grandchildren, await._

Theon closed his eyes, and did not fight it. Perhaps his ancestors would be kinder in death than their children had been to him, in life. But then, like a jolt to his heart, he thought of Robb.

 _He's still in danger,_ he thought, _I was not ready to abandon him. Not in truth. Perhaps I was too impulsive._

 _You have earned your rest,_ whispered the tempting voice, _Forget the boy. Let his kin care for him._

 _No._ Thought Theon sharply, willing his heavy flesh to struggle. But his useless body continued to plunge downward; and now he felt clammy hands about his ankles and stomach and neck, dragging him down with invisible hands. Their claws began to pinch into his dead flesh, the more his mind insisted on struggling.

 _They can't protect Robb without me,_ he thought, _I was too hasty. He needs me._

 _You belong with me,_ the quiet voice insisted.

 _I belong with the ones I love,_ Theon argued, _Robb and Sansa and Yara. Jon, too. They need me. Release me. Let me go back to them._

Resentfully, he felt the clammy hands begin to relinquish him, reluctant and slow, but they did not release their grip entirely. He was still sinking.

 _I could, for a time,_ said the Drowned God, _But a loan is all you'd get from me. Better to come now, under no duress. Your spirit is mine._

 _I belong to myself,_  Theon denied, resentful and frustrated, as he continued to sink into the black depths. _LET ME GO!_

He flew up toward the surface, the faintest glimmer of light above the waves glowing brighter as the rushing, frothing water began to rumble. Hurtling upward, Theon felt his stomach jolt, like he might vomit from the rough motions as the eternal sea spat him out; and he knew no more.

 

 

bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel

_what is dead may never die_

 

 

"This is a curious scar you have, my lord," purred Ros, as she stretched out her naked self beside him. "I've often wondered from whence it came. A fire, yes, but which kind?"

Theon fingered the conspicuous burn on his neck with one idle finger. He had long grown used to its precence, as he had come to accept the missing strips of skin Ramsay had flayed from his thighs and belly.

"A misunderstanding," he said, "Which led to an unfortunate incident."

"I've heard rumours," she prodded, "Of a strange boy with strange ideas, who cut his own neck instead of befriend his lord's bannermen."

"You shouldn't mind idle gossip," Theon chided, "Most are exaggerations. Though in this case, you have the right of it."

She raised a saucy, heavily-plucked eyebrow at him. "You slit your own throat? Truly?"

"Truly," Theon confirmed. Then he rolled over and pulled on his smallclothes.

He had been anxious, at the first stirrings of manhood. He'd tried to avoid all thought of Ramsay's cruellest punishment, and it had been easy as a young boy. But Theon's drive for sex had always been high, and he'd matured young in every life. He knew it was life now, that he had been granted thrice over, but not as Jon had. No Red priestess of a far-off God had tended to him and awoken him in the same flesh. He was forced to re-live each aspect of youth, and the stirrings of desire was but one of them.

He had gone to Ros, because she had been something like a friend once, and he had wondered what became of her sometimes, in King's Landing. Had she been roasted by wildfire, and Cersei's madness? Or butchered by Stannis' men? Had she even made it there at all, or found a place to peddle her flesh elsewhere? Had she been caught in the decimation of the Riverlands? He would never know it, and he was startled to know how much it bothered him in this life.

Theon was a better lover in this life, he felt. Kinder, at least. His first night with her for the second time, he had focused on her pleasure, leery of exploring his own. It seemed too much like a dream, every time he was confronted with his body, whole again.

Ros had seemed to appreciate his attentions, with his mouth and fingers on the places Theon knew women wanted them most. But her cries were false, and that irked him.

"Stop it," he had chided from between her thighs. "I don't want fake cries of ecstasy."

She had stiffened then, and Theon felt cruel. Men probably beat her for pleasure sometimes, and he had frightened her with his annoyance. He stroked her thigh gently in apology.

"I'll never get any better, if you make me think I'm wonderful at it, right at the start," he said.

She had blinked rapidly, and offered him a sensual smile.

"Not many wish to be informed on where they might improve, my lord," she said in her sultry manner.

"Then perhaps I am not like many men," Theon admitted, and thus her tutelage began.

His trips to Winter Town were far less frequent in this life; only enough that men did not question the heat of his blood. Yet the Septa found issue with it, and the Lord and Lady of Winterfell frowned when they caught him returning late, when the gates were to close for the night. But Theon knew the gods didn't care, if he wetted his wick in a wench.

Theon snorted whenever he thought of the half-remembered faces of the Seven, squabbling over him as though he were a prime cut of meat. He'd spoken to Septa Mordane of it, without going into specifics. She'd been mortified at his questioning of her gods. He wanted to know if worship gave them greater power. If sacrifices were considered a typical show of devotion. She made the sign of the Seven, and sent him from her sight in no uncertain terms, which Theon thought fruitless. The gods didn't care for his 'blasphemy' as she saw it. Her devotion to them by sending him away, was as pointless as most things in life. Yet the Septa couldn't avoid him entirely. It was not as if Theon was banished from the castle entire, at least not then. His recent orders made him suspect that might change.

Theon had been tasked with suspicious orders from Ned Stark, which would send him far from Winterfell, to his consternation. He had been asked to renew the bonds of friendship with House Mallister on behalf of House Stark. He was to help broker the new terms of a trading agreement, which was due to be updated. It had been arranged with House Mallister of the Riverlands by Ned Stark's grandsire, Lord Edwyle Stark, and its terms had run out. This was the perfect task for an eldest son and heir, and a chance for Robb to prove himself.

When Theon pointed this out, Ned had sighed heavily, and asked him why he could not see it as a mark of the trust House Stark was placing in him, instead. Theon was slightly disturbed by the idea of that; but he pressed it down firmly. Since returning from death the second time, he had found it harder to keep a firm clamp on his emotions.

He had woken over a year ago to Sansa stabbing roughly at her sewing, in a chair beside him. In feverish dreams, he had partially woken to Luwin lamenting his 'unshakeable touch of madness' to Ned Stark. And another time, to Robb asleep in the chair Sansa occupied. Robb was clutching Theon's hand, his red head pillowed on Theon's furs, sound asleep. But Theon had still been in the grip of the poppy then, given liberally for the pain his neck. He would only come to learn later, of the way the wound had been cauterised with fire and salt. The Ironborn way, to keep him from bleeding out.

But Theon knew the truth of the matter better than any other. He had died, for true. But the Drowned God had released him, relinquished his grip; if only for a little while. The cut at his neck had been undone, just a little, to make the wound less lengthy and more shallow. It would be as if Theon had never died, as far as the Starks knew.

Yara had screamed bloody murder at him, however, when she'd been let into the sickroom. Evidently Lord Stark and Maester Luwin had been keeping her away, until he was strong enough to handle her fury.

He let her rage at him for his 'stupid, ludicrous, outrageously dumb and selfish' decision. She raged at him, at the Starks for driving him into madness and melancholy, and the Boltons, for whatever they had done to inspire such fear in him.

"I will kill them all," she raged, kicking at a table because Theon could not be jolted, and so she could not hit out at the bedframe that housed him.

"The Starks were going to keep me, in your stead, if you died," she whispered, "They pretend they weren't thinking of it, but I saw it in their eyes. He's a heartless fuck, that grim Lord Stark. What would our poor mother have done, if she thought the Starks had killed you, and taken me in your place?"

Theon had not considered their mother's feelings for many years, and was shamed because of it. He promised to write to her more often, and was saddened to learn that Yara was to be shipped home, well in advance of him healing from his self-inflicted wound. He felt deep guilt too, that he had never considered what might happen to her, had he stayed dead while she was in the North.

"I'm to go to avoid their temptation to keep me hostage," she snorted, "Gwyn's demanding it, and Father's men agree with her."

"I'll miss you," said Theon, because it was the truth.

"Don't," said Yara, "It won't be long before we meet again, little brother. I won't let these fucks keep you much longer. They can't be trusted, not if they drove you to this madness."

"It wasn't Robb's fault," said Theon, "He didn't know the depths of my trepidation."

Yara eyed him with dark distaste. She would never admit to her fear so openly, Theon knew it. But still, she did not turn from him; and that was far more regard than their father would show toward him.

"What made you go so far?" she pleaded with him to tell her, in hushed tones. "I won't tell of it, only _tell me_ , so I can set your mind at ease."

"You wouldn't understand," Theon said quietly, "None would. The Boltons are savages, Yara. More brutal than all our kin amassed together."

Yara frowned, confused and tired. She wanted less cryptic answers than he was prepared to give, but ultimately, she would have to leave unsatisfied. He wondered if she would ever forgive him for almost succeeding in taking his life in front of her. If Robb would.

Robb was alternately hot and chilled toward Theon. Robb's affection was twisted by his own guilt, for 'pressing you too hard, despite knowing you to be... fragile' which Theon wanted to rail against. He wasn't weak, or touched in the head, least-ways not greater than any other man.

Robb had been furious too, crying hot tears with snot on his face, as he described his panic, at feeling Theon's life leave his body, with every pulse of the hot blood running down his fingers. Theon wished he could promise never to do such a thing again, as Robb surely cried out for. But he could not make promises, that he had no way of knowing if he could keep. If he was ever in Ramsay's clutches again, a clean death would be a mercy. And Theon would ensure it was permanent that time.

Sansa too, was devastated, and expressed it through her anger. Starting the day Theon first reawakened properly, with maddeningly itchy scars upon his neck. The mottled flesh was ghastly and gruesome from the hot iron that had 'saved' him, as far as the North knew. Sansa chided Theon for being so selfish, and informed him what became of her blood-soaked dress.

"I burnt it," she said, "Almost set my hair on fire too. It was coated with your blood. Every time I look at blue dresses I feel sick. I close my eyes and all I see is a fountain of blood."

"I never meant-"

"I don't care what you intended!" she shouted, raw and open as she threw down her embroidery hoop. "Intention doesn't matter! The outcome is all I see. You dying afore me, night after night in my dreams."

Theon had never intended to be the author of her nightmares; as Ramsay had been for them both, in another life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and knew it was not enough.

He wondered if that was the true reason he was being sent to Seaguard in Robb's stead. To remove the reminder of such a harrowing experience from the children's sight. Even Jon, who had little love for him in his first life, and had sat top Theon's fur-strewn featherbed and cried. It was a hard thing, Theon found, to be careless with your life when other people loved you.

There was another, more obvious reason for his banishment. No doubt Ned was hoping to separate Theon from his children for other, less benevolent reasons.

Theon had felt the stirrings of manhood well in advance of his entanglement with Ros. It had taken a second death to acknowledge them further than tentative fingers exploring himself in the dark. But Theon's brush with death had stoked a fire in Robb that had never burnt brighter than embers in their past childhood, if it had ever been lit at all. After sennights of his alternate anger and devotion as Theon healed, the older boy finally snapped, wishing to confront Robb's fickle behaviour.

It had been his first day in the training yard since the incident. Theon winced at every blow, his neck screaming as he moved the healing flesh in directions it had never stretched. Maester Luwin had insisted that he must begin training, otherwise the skin would scar over stiff and unmovable. Theon needed to move it if he wanted the skin to be supple.

Robb had gone easy on him, and they had ended their bout early, meaning they were alone in the armoury with the training yard still teaming with men. Robb put away their tourney swords, while Theon replaced the shields Rodrik insisted they use.

"You and I need to speak," Theon began, halting Robb before he could advance toward the large oak doors.

"On what?" asked Robb.

"On your treatment of me," said Theon.

Robb's eyes narrowed, irritated immediately at his wording.

"My treatment?" he repeated, scandalised at Theon's perceived hypocrisy.

"And what of your treatment of me," Robb continued, "When you _slit your throat_ afore me-"

"You cannot always hold it against me."

"It's been three moons!" said Robb, his words strangled yet incredulous, "I felt you dying beneath my fingers. Your blood slicking my hands! I wanted nothing more than to save you, and that is all I could do; nothing. Nothing."

"I know," Theon said softly.

"NO YOU DON'T!" Robb roared, "How _could_ you know? How can you know what I see, in the hour of the wolf? You _haunt_ me. A shade of you, with bloody flesh torn asunder... and a rasping call where your voice should be."

There were salty tears streaming down his face. In a burst of madness, Theon wanted to lick them clean, to find out what they tasted like. To see if Robb's reddened cheeks would be hot beneath, and soft on his tongue. Robb had advanced on Theon as he screamed, and now he stood panting, less than an arm's span away.

"But only ever a dreamer's shade," Theon addressed his words gently; "For I am right here. I still breathe."

"Through no wish of your own," Robb scolded.

"It was a momentary madness," said Theon, attempting to soothe him, "Here and gone."

"And should it return?" Robb hounded him, pressing ever closer.

"I am unlike to take the same steps, knowing the impact it has had, on those I have... a certain affection for."

"Do I have your word?" asked Robb.

"What else can I give?"

Robb's nose was almost touching his own. Theon wanted to step back, to get a better distance from Robb's pain, and his haunting blue eyes, begging him to stay safe, and alive, and loyal.

"Swear to me!" Robb begged him, "Swear you will never leave me, never die-"

"You know I can't," Theon whispered, filled with regret.

Robb's kiss was like a punch to the mouth; brimming with fury and teeth. His technique was sloppy and wet; undignified. His clinging fists dragged Theon closer by his leather surcoat, as tears and spit slicked their skin. Yet Theon moaned deep in his throat, and let his eyes flutter closed. Theon touched a cautious hand to Robb's soft red curls, and felt him whimper in response. Robb allowed him to slow and gentle the kiss. He let Theon wrap his arms about his waist, to settle on his rump and let his tongue explore his inexperienced mouth. He sighed at every soft touch, and let Theon's devotion swallow them whole.

 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like y'all should know the basic characterisation of Theon in my mind starting this was: Straight Up Savage Theon "I don't even know what Chill is" Greyjoy, Who Tells The Gods to go Fuck Themselves, Suffers No Fools and is Brazenly Honest 24/7, All While Worshipping the Ground Robb Walks On


	6. [the Storm God of Clouded Skies]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The past is not my concern. The future is no longer my concern either._  
>    
>  _One Minute. The Soldier's Minute. In a battle that's all you get. One minute of everything all at once. And anything before is nothing. Everything after.....nothing. Nothing in comparison to that one minute._  
>    
>  ***

 

the Storm God of Clouded Skies

_strife_

 

"I want to go with Theon," Jon insisted, as politely as the deferential Snow could manage, whilst still being firm, "I humbly beg your permission to do so, Lord Stark."

Theon blinked, not entirely sure his eyes and ears did not deceive him. Never in his lives did he carry an expectation that Jon might beg more of his company, not less. He tilted his head as he looked at the boy who was resembling his manly self more by the day. Jon was more confident, and had been for many years. Perhaps it was due to a lack of constant belittlement from Theon's end. He no longer felt the need to press Jon to remember he was an outsider at Winterfell, just like him. It was not true for either of them anymore. Jon had told him once, that he was a Greyjoy and a Stark. Jon might never repeat those words again, or feel that sentiment in this life. But Theon would never forget it, and he carried it close to his breast.

Robb glanced between his bastard brother and his father. He looked torn between agreeing that Theon should warrant a companion on his quest, and brimming over with jealousy that Jon was in a position to ask. Robb had already tried. But Ned Stark insisted the responsibility was Theon's, to be a representative of House Stark and the North. The Lord of Winterfell was firm in his belief that the onus would be transferred to Robb, simply by his arrival in Seaguard. A son and heir could not help but be the representative of his House, and Ned wanted Theon to rise to this task alone. He seemed like to present this argument again now that Jon had asked the same.

"I'm not a Stark," prodded Jon, as his father mulled over the request.

Ned stroked a slow and tired hand over his beard scruff, clearly care-worn and desiring a quick end to this deliberation.

"If I give my assent; _if_ ," he stressed, "You must have a reason for such a long and arduous journey."

"Could I not simply be a part of the retinue? A guardsman?" said Jon.

"No," said Lord Stark stiffly, "A man does not send his son from his household without a reason, Jon, whether stated or not. House Mallister will question your presence."

"Must I reveal myself?"

Ned looked taken aback at that, and well Theon knew why. The Jon that he remembered from their first shared childhood would have considered any attempt at subterfuge a dishonourable deception beneath his character. Jon was obsessed with proving Lady Catelyn wrong in her fears of bastards, to show that not every baseborn son was covetous of his brother's fortune. Theon bristled at the disturbed frown Ned shot his second son. He had the irrational urge to step in front of Jon, to shield him from his father's harsh gaze.

"Their suspicion of my motive in sending you would be far more severe, if you were revealed to have hidden yourself," Ned growled, "I'll hear no more about it. Leave me to make my determination."

Summarily dismissed, Theon followed his friend and his new lover from the room without protest. He exchanged a look of significance with Robb behind Jon's back, and was unsurprised when Robb pealed away early. Theon clapped Jon on the back to stop him from following his brother, who no doubt wanted time to prepare his chambers for Theon to come a-calling. The weather outside was miserable; heavy, loud rain pelting the sloped roofs and crenellations of the castle, thrumming through Theon's very bones.

"Thank you, Jon," he said, "For your kind offer. I appreciate it, though I know it comes from a place of pity."

"I don't think you pitiful," Jon protested with a heavy frown.

Theon offered him a rare grin, and echoed Robb's words to him in the sickroom; "No, merely fragile."

Jon had the decency to look shame-faced, reddening as he ducked his head to avoid Theon's eyes. Theon could not help but admire his former nemesis for Robb's affections. Jon was fiercely loyal to his family and other loved ones. That Theon had managed to make that selective list in this life was humbling. He had certainly changed enough in personality to warrant due consideration from others who had been quick to dismiss him in his former life.

"It's not that I think you weak, don't misunderstand me," pleaded Jon quietly, "It's only- I could not bear it, if you ever felt the need, that is, to repeat-"

"Hush," said Theon, "I know your heart Jon Snow, and that which you struggle to express. And I am grateful."

He squeezed the hold he still had on Jon's shoulder, and finally released him; if only to ruffle his hair as though he were Bran or Rickon. Jon scowled, and slapped his hand away, and all was righted and returned to normalcy. Theon chuckled, taking his leave with a spring in his step. As expected, when he sauntered to Robb's room, the door opened without him knocking.

Robb reached out with one hand and dragged him inside, quickly slamming Theon's back into the closed door. Theon chuckled at the clear enthusiasm, but it was swallowed by Robb's hot mouth. They kissed deeply, hot and wet, Robb moaning all the while. Theon tugged on Robb's laces, wrestling Robb's jerkin to release it from where he had tucked it into his tight breeches. Robb pulled back only to help Theon tug it up over his head, mussing his red curls into a fluffy mass of ringlets. Theon worked on the binding buckles of his cloak, allowing it to flutter to the cool stone floor before Robb was on him again.

As usual, Theon managed to wrest control, yanking Robb ever close and twisting them, so the younger boy was against the door. Theon pressed his hands to Robb's warm belly, smirking when Robb hissed at the cold touch. He worked Robb's tunic up for better access to his breeches, grinning wickedly as Robb moaned at even the slightest touch to his crotch. Theon bit Robb's tempting, plump lower lip even as he ripped Robb's breeches open. He held up Robb's tunic so he could press a kiss to his heaving stomach, on the way to his knees. Wincing at the hard floor against his knees, Theon applied himself to Robb's aching need, swallowing him down with the skill of much practice.

He'd never been with another man save Robb in this life, but that didn't negate everything he'd learnt from Ramsay. Theon had hated this task almost above all others back then. Mainly because of his aching teeth. Now, there was no pain, save for when he took Robb a little deeper than he was capable, and felt his throat protest.

"Gods," Robb moaned, never one to last long when Theon sucked him.

Theon couldn't smirk around the dick in his mouth, but he was certain his eyes conveyed the same mirth. Robb brushed his full cheek with one achingly gentle thumb, and came down his throat with a pretty whine.

They collapsed in Robb's bed in a tangle of half-removed clothing. Theon's breeches caught on his boots in his haste and he cursed while Robb giggled at him. It had been six moons of hasty fumblings turning to greater skill. Theon had been leery of Robb returning the favour at first, echoes of his former trauma making him uncomfortable indeed with his dick in another man's hand. But Robb was about as far from Ramsay as Theon could imagine. He trusted him to be kind.

Robb didn't shimmy down the covers to take him into his mouth that afternoon, however. He pressed a hard kiss to Theon's seed-stained lips, running his hands through his damp hair. It was wavy from the mist of rain driving underneath even the covered walkways, and Theon moaned as Robb rocked against him and tugged on his locks. It was too soon for Robb to be aching with need again, but the way he squirmed against him spoke another tale.

Robb pulled away from their kiss, panting, and Theon whined in mock sadness, chasing his lips again. Their swollen mouths met again a fistful of times, until Robb pulled away with a whimper.

"Damn you," Robb panted, "I'm trying to tell you something."

"Oh yes?" Theon teased, "It wouldn't be; what a needy, naughty boy you are?"

"Fuck," said Robb, "Yes. But- I- Will you fuck me?"

Theon pulled back a little, to better look into Robb's beautiful blue eyes. There was no hesitation there, though Robb down bit on his own delicious, juicy lower lip. He seemed only a little embarassed by the need to ask, like a wanton harlot.

"Robb Stark," Theon grinned, "You little tart."

Robb flushed horribly, his red face clashing with his red curls. Theon chuckled to see it, and pressed a sweet kiss to Robb's heated cheek which was burning bright pink with blood.

"Are you certain?" Theon whispered, accompanied by a little nip to Robb's ear.

"Gods, yes," Robb moaned wantonly.

His hands were tangled in Theon's hair, and he pulled on the locks sharply, making Theon's scalp scream in protest. But he did not argue against the rough tug, giving out a small groan of pleasure instead. He liked it when Robb was demanding. It pleased him to see his little lording so unbridled. But Theon brought the focus back to the task at hand, rather than indulging in Robb's insistant hands and wants immediately.

"Robb, if we do this, it can never be undone," Theon cautioned him, "We can never take it back."

"I won't want to," Robb insisted, "I'm certain, Theon. I want you- I want to _feel_ you, inside me."

Theon didn't shame him by asking a second time. A man generally knew when he was sure or not, and Theon trusted Robb's judgement ahead of most others. He knew his oldest friend had grown to be even more honest about his own desires in the life, than he had in the last.

"I can't fuck you now," Theon said, "No matter how much I want to. We don't have-"

Robb squirmed away from him, reaching into his night-drawer and digging deep inside, under spare parchment and ink pots. Theon was astounded when Robb's hand emerged clutching a tiny glass bottle of oil, and he offered Theon a smugly proud smile.

"Well, well," Theon cooed, "And why is this little tincture not full to the brim?"

Robb blushed again and mumbled into his chin. Theon caressed Robb's slightly stubbled skin with his index finger, before gently lifting Robb's chin with that same finger and his thumb.

"Speak up, sweetling," he said kindly, "You've no cause to feel shamed in front of me."

"I haven't really used it," Robb confessed, "Least-ways not how you mean. I tried a finger but it was strange and I didn't know- that is to say- I wasn't sure... I ended up slicking my cock instead."

"Hmm," Theon pondered, "And now you'd like me to slick you open instead?"

Robb covered his eyes with his empty hand, mortified.

"How can you just say these things," he whined, "So brazenly, without a care?"

"You always knew me for an honest man, love," Theon countered, ducking round Robb's shielding hand to press another loving kiss to his hot skin.

They wriggled out of their last shreds of clothing, and Theon encouraged Robb to lie on his stomach, knowing it would make the process easier. Robb shivered a little in the cool air, pressing his face into the featherbed bashfully, embarrassed to be so exposed. Theon ran a gentle hand down Robb's back, caressing his familiar, beloved flesh; freckles and faint scars from the training yard and youthful frolics. Robb sighed beneath the touch, humming in pleasure when Theon began to pepper his shoulders with wet kisses. Theon pressed both of his hands down Robb's lightly muscled back, working away aches with dexterous fingers.

Gradually, Robb began to relax, melting into his soft featherbed, so that by the time Theon's slicked up fingers began questing inside him, he let out only a faint "Oh!" in a whimper of surprise.

Theon pressed deeper, working two fingers inside Robb's tight body, taking care to be gentle, and watching for any discomfort. Robb wriggled and groaned beneath his touch, so that Theon's cock throbbed all the harder, and he took himself in hand for a few rough tugs, if only to take the edge off. When Robb felt looser, Theon crooked his fingers, looking for the spot inside that he'd known inside himself. The one that Ramsay and his men had only ever skimmed by accident.

Robb let out a strangled shriek when he found it, arching his back, and throwing a look of wide-eyed disbelief over his shoulder.

"The fuck-" Robb hissed, as Theon grinned wickedly.

He worked the same spot over again and Robb howled, his fists clenching into the bedsheets, biting down into the same in an effort to silence himself. Theon was merciless, crooking his fingers and rubbing hard at that special spot, and he made Robb jerk and writhe and weep. Until Robb came with hot tears running down his face, wailing into the featherbed.

Theon pulled out his fingers with a wet squelch, wiping them roughtly on a fur that had slipped from the bed in their ruckus. Robb flopped onto his back, out of the wet patch where his seed glistened, and Theon offered him an unrepentant grin. Robb lay panting, shocked in awe at coming again, this time without a touch to his cock.

Eventually he beckoned Theon with one floppy arm, dragging him down when Theon moved close enough, into another sloppy kiss.

"That was wonderful," Robb murmered, "But you promised me something else."

Robb tilted one leg out further, revealing the shiny slick of the oil mixed with his seed, wet on his thigh. His cock was soft and pink, and unlikely to rise again. Theon wanted to ask if he was certain, but one look at the firm set of Robb's jaw told him it would be unwise. He nodded wordlessly, moving to settle between Robb's thighs. Theon took himself in hand, using the other to widen Robb's legs and lift one high, to settle it about his waist. Then he pressed inside, where Robb was hot and tight and slick.

Robb grunted, throwing back his head to expose his pale throat, the apple in his neck bobbing as he swallowed back a noise of pain. But the fingernails suddenly clutching at Theon's shoulder blades told him all he needed to know. He pressed an apologetic kiss to Robb's throat, but knew it was not enough. He stilled about half-way inside.

"Seven Hells," said Robb, his eyes streaming tears, "It- it hurts."

"I know, sweetling," Theon whispered, "The first time's the worst, I promise. It will get better."

"I don't know if I can take it," Robb grimaced, unable to meet his eyes, ashamed.

Theon moved back, ready to pull out.

"Wait, wait-" Robb panicked, rightly assuming it would take some time to persuade Theon he was ready to try again, if he faltered here.

Theon stilled obediently, waiting for Robb's decision. He rubbed a soothing hand down his flank, and leaned down carefully, to press a soft kiss to his lover's lips. Eventually Robb nodded, signalling Theon could try again. He pressed back in, deeper this time, slow but relentless. Robb sobbed again, in pain but trying so bravely to fight it. Theon found it sickened him, to think of Robb suffering for his sake, but knew there were other positions he might find easier to handle. He reached a hand beneath Robb's back, and slid it down to grab a firm hold of one buttock.

"Wrap your legs about me," he said, "Hook your ankles together."

Robb bit his lip in anguish, but obeyed, and Theon carefully rolled onto his back so Robb sat astride him. They wriggled about, to free Robb's legs from underneath him. Then the young Stark heir was kneeling over Theon, speared on his dick, his hands on Theon's belly for balance.

"Is that better, sweetling?" asked Theon, and watched as Robb gave an experimental thrust to work it out.

"I don't know," he said softly, and Theon placed his hands on Robb's hips.

"Like this," said Theon, "Roll when you slide down."

Robb allowed Theon's strong hands to guide him, forcing his hips into a rolling, undulating movement.

"Oh, oh," Robb panted, his hole fluttering tighter around Theon as he moaned.

Theon smiled, pleased when Robb began an achingly slow rhythm; dragging himself up until the head of Theon's cock almost popped free, before sliding back down. After several of these slow thrusts Robb grew in confidence, his pace quickening. Theon left his hands in place but no longer controlled Robb's movement. Theon simply stoked his thumbs over Robb's sweat slick skin, and luxuriated in the exquisite feeling of that tight heat gripping him, and the wonderful view of Robb taking his pleasure only from Theon.

Robb grew in confidence, no longer unsure or bashful, as he bounced on Theon's cock and moaned loudly. His own cock was still soft, though it twitched in a valiant effort to rise, as Robb threw back his head and let out a deep groan. Theon could refrain no longer. He reared up to assault Robb's mouth with his biting, rough kisses, as he twisted them again. Theon spread Robb out, shoving his knees up, until the younger boy was almost bent in half.

Theon fucked him roughly, as Robb choked off shocked cries; a dozen punishing thrusts aiming for his sweet spot. Robb's pretty pink cock spurted again, giving up a little watery seed, without ever growing hard. The sight of it was Theon's undoing; he threw back his head and came with a bellow, his world bursting white behind his eyelids.

Robb wheezed beneath the weight of him when next Theon was aware of his surroundings. His soft hands were fluttering about Theon's clammy skin, too polite to shove him off. Theon pressed back and away, his soft cock slipping free to the sound of Robb's whine. Theon offered him an apologetic kiss upon one freckled shoulder, before rolling Robb onto his front again.

When Theon slid a hand between Robb's buttocks, Robb clenched his legs shut with a whimper.

"I can't go again, Theon, not so soon," he said, sounding almost frightened that Theon might insist.

"Hush," said Theon to gentle him, "I only want to see you're alright. Not bleeding."

Reluctantly, Robb allowed him to part his cheeks again. He burrowed his face into a pillow, as if to hide from the fact Theon was looking closely at a place so intimate and private. Robb whimpered again when Theon dipped his fingers inside, where he was so loose, and a dribble of Theon's seed ran out.

"Ah!" Robb cried, when Theon ducked down to lick it away.  
  
But he did not protest when Theon followed the seed to its source, and burrowed his tongue inside. Instead he lay slayed open once more, shaking and shivering as Theon ate him open with his clever tongue.

Eventually, Theon pulled back, scrubbing up a sliver of wet slick on his thumb, as he sat up in satisfaction of a thorough job. Robb leaned back enough to give him a displeased glare.

"Why'd you stop?" he pouted, and Theon chuckled.

Then he ducked back down to continue his work; making pretty whimpers fall from Robb's red lips.

 

 he sets snares to lure the Ironborn to their destruction

_in every salty storm you will find his foggy hand_

 

  
Theon rode along the road toward Seaguard with the cherished memory of Robb, sweetly mewling in his arms, fresh in his mind. They'd become rather stellar at fucking, in the moons before Theon had to leave. The journey had been arduous and boring for the most part, except their passage through the Neck, which had astounded him and Jon both. Theon for the memories it conjured, of being on campaign with Robb against the Lannisters, in another life. And Jon, for the wonder of seeing the ghostskin-coated decimated towers of Moat Cailin, leaning precariously, strangled with vines and gloomy in the low light of the swamp. A huge lizard-lion slithered away from their party, too clever to tangle with so many mounted men. Jon gaped as he pointed it out, astonished by the rare sighting. Only the mysterious crannogmen knew how to hunt and skin them; only they dared to call the dangerous beasts prey. Theon and Jon had exchanged wide eyes, then grins and chuckles.

Aside from Jon, they were accompanied by a contingent of Stark guardsmen, Captained by Jory, and the remaining Ironborn who had stayed on at Winterfell after Yara had been sent back to Pyke. Gwynesse Harlaw had insisted on remaining in Winterfell, and following Theon on his mission, to oversee 'the safety' of her nephew. Theon did not know whether to be touched by her concern, or irked by the weakness it would betray to his father, who had cause enough to be doubtful of him. But whenever melancholy thoughts such as those threatened to swamp him in Winterfell, he had Robb to wash the feelings away. On the road, he had Jon, though not in the same capacity.

They took hospitality at the seat of House Erenford, avoiding the Twins, where Robb had once lost his head. From there, they took rough-hewn dirt roads toward Seaguard. The coastline emerged from the forest as they hugged the cliffs, and Theon felt his heart soar at the sight of those honest grey waves. Jon slowed his palfrey in awe at the sight, his pouty mouth hanging open, until Theon warned him he might catch flies. Jon didn't even acknowledge the rarity of Theon japing, too stunned by the magnitude of the ocean. Theon was pleased to know it. The oceans were the dominion of the Ironborn, after all, and if the Drowned God was to be believed, his ancestors were happy to claim him, even if his father would not.

The Stark guardsmen outnumbered the Ironborn among their party two or three to one, and yet it counted for little, one dim night less than a sennight or so before they were to arrive. Theon felt the change in the air, like the breath of rain on the wind. The sea raged against the nearby cliffs, making it difficult to hear his own thoughts. But he sensed discord on the salty air, and carefully untucked his bow from its customary position, strapped to his horse as they travelled. It was still his preferred weapon, and moreso when danger was close.

Theon was never more glad of the arrows on his back, when the Northmen were a little too deep in their cups for their drunkeness to be of natural means. They had been vigilant about keeping watch among their reluctant travelling companions. Theon was surprised to see them grow sloppy so close to safety, but then he supposed they had been lulled into security, after so many nights of peace.

"Jory," he hissed quietly, "Something is wrong."

The other man did not have a chance to question him on it; the Ironborn attacked, wrestling the Northmen in a clang of sharp steel and hungry iron. Theon leapt to his feet, but none advanced upon him. He caught sight of Jon locking blades with a man, far in advance of his size, and hurried to even the odds. He quickly skewered his countryman through the neck with a precise shot.

Jon's face was splattered with the man's hot blood as he plunged to his knees, dead between them. There was no time to speak; another man pounced on Jon, holding an axe to his throat even as Theon trained his next arrow on him.

"Don't!" Theon barked, "Draw his blood and I'll cleave you limb from limb, I swear it."

Jon was just a boy, small and scared, slick with another man's blood which shone pitch black in the moonlight.

"Idiot boy," hissed his Aunt, "Don't you know we're to free you from these beasts?"

The clanging of swords had ended; Theon risked a quick glance and saw that only Jory remained alive from the Northmen, sprawled on the ground with his sword laying far from reach. A hulking brute stood over him, ready to gut him if he moved.

"What madness is this?" Theon snapped, "The Iron Throne will fall upon the Islands if you steal me!"

"Steal?" she repeated, "Yes. Perhaps that is the right word. You seem to have given yourself to these Starks freely."

"I am Robb's sworn sword," Theon agreed, "I swore an oath. I will not break it to be dragged back to those pitiless rocks, where I am less wanted than any other third son ever was."

"Your father wants you back," she said, "As does your mother. She cries out for you, in waking dreams. Would you break her heart again, by having me tell her you would not come?"

"Let Jon go," Theon barked, ignoring her sentimental pleas.

Words were wind, he reminded himself. All that mattered was the moment in front of you, and Jon was worth more than each of these men combined, his Aunt included.

"Theon-" Jon barely spoke, before the man holding him gave him a rough shake and admonishment to shut his mouth.

"Why do you cling to your captors?" chided Gwyn, "You are their prisoner no more. Come, be free."

"Ned Stark will butcher you all, if you harm his son," Theon warned, "Let him go, and I'll come with you."

It broke his heart to make such a promise, knowing it would likely mean Robb was lost to him forever. And the others too; Sansa with her sweet smiles, and all the little ones. Jon was trembling in the rough hands of his captor, who made the mistake of loosening his grip a touch at Theon's seeming acquiesence. Theon dipped his bow a little, and the man's shoulders relaxed.

"Bind the bastard's hands," said Gwyn, her eyes glittering with dark triumph.

The sharp edge of the axe at last moved away from Jon's throat, and faster than a blink, Theon's hands shot up and loosed an arrow in Jon's captor. The arrow pierced the man's black heart, and he crumpled, dead before he hit the ground. There was a stunned silence as they all observed the dead man's fall.

"I lied," said Theon.

He whirled about to train his arrows on the other men, who were all too many steps away to grab Jon. The younger boy hurried behind Theon, to stand back to back against him, preventing either of them from being grasped again. Jory used the distraction of the angry cries of the Ironborn, to roll out from beneath his captor and grab up his sword. Gwyn stomped toward Theon and he immediately trained his bow on her.

"Kill me," she hissed, "And be damned for a kinslayer."

Theon glared at her, but relented, lowering his bow. She leapt toward a saddled horse, and had pounced upon its back within another breath. The other Ironborn melted back to follow her, clearly under orders to follow her lead. Gwyn spat on the ground in Theon's general direction, offering him a glare with her final parting words.

"Do not look to find safety in the North," she grinned ruthlessly, "Your precious Starks will split your skull in twain if you return."

Theon glared at her hatefully, brimming with rage that threatened to become a flood of misery, as he realised just what she meant. With a plan underway to 'rescue' Theon from the Starks, Balon Greyjoy must have been planning to reave the coast once more, and name himself for a King. As their hoof-falls disappeared into the distance, Theon slumped, disheartened.

"What did she mean?" demanded Jon, frightened and angry because of it.

"My father has broken the terms of his treaty," Theon said, "Or is about to. My life will be forfeit in the North."

Jon frowned, looking to Jory for help, but the other man was watching Theon with sorry eyes.

"It is my duty to return you to Lord Stark," he said, solemn and apologetic.

Theon could not deny that the idea was temping; he would see Robb one last time. But there was still work he could do to secure his safety, even from afar. And if Theon would not go quietly unto his fate for the gods, he certainly would not do so for one man, that he had once bested as a youth of ten.

"I'll see you dead first," Jon snarled, fierce and protective, before Theon could even think to open his mouth.

Jon stood between Jory and Theon with a naked blade in his hand, glaring at his father's trusted man without hesitation.

"Your father-"

"-be damned," Jon interrupted, "And the Others take you too, Jory Cassel. Has Theon not proved his loyalty to House Stark? He just saved my life! Do you think I will let you take his in repayment?"

"Jon," Theon begged at his back, trying to prevent the boy from speech he could not retract, "Return to Winterfell with Jory. Apologise to Robb for me-"

"I'm not leaving you," Jon snapped, without turning to look at him. "I promised Robb I would look out for you, and I mean to."

Theon could not quash the warmth in his heart at those words, but he also could not allow Jon to go through with such a damning step. Lady Catelyn would brand him as a traitor to his family, and he might never be allowed back to Winterfell again. Theon refused to be the reason Jon lost his family. Not after all Jon had once sacrificed, to save the entire realm.

"Jon, you must go with Jory," he insisted, "Where I'm going, it's not safe."

"Then it will be all the better with two of us," said Jon, his sword still up against Jory, who could see that he had been defeated.

Theon sighed, but Jon's subborness was part of the reason he garnered Theon's affections, and he was proud of the boy, for being so brave.

"Go home, Jory," said Jon, "There is nothing more for you to do here."

Jory looked between the two stubborn young men one last time before nodding regretfully. He likely knew, better than Jon himself, what the baseborn boy was sacrificing. Theon tried one last time to prevent it, when Jory had mounted his horse and begun to ride away.

"Go after him," he said, "It's not too late."

"No," Jon snarled, turning to face Theon at last. His grey eyes were black with enflamed passion in the moonlight.

"We're family, aren't we?" Jon pressed, advancing even closer to Theon, once his sword was re-sheathed.

"Now and always," Theon promised.

He reached down to clench the back of Jon's neck with his gloved hand. Then Theon tilted his head down so that their foreheads touched, and they breathed the same air. Their damp hair curled together, as the grim drizzle turned to rain, and they stood, still and silent and utterly alone but for each other.


	7. [R'hllor the Lord of Light]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who do you think will continue this place, this life? Do you plan to live forever? It is in them that our future lies..._  
>  Yes I have risked, **I hope I am always able to risk everything for the just and right cause.**  
>  _If we did not make this decision, we could never again call ourselves innocent!_
> 
> ***

R'hllor the Lord of Light

_flame_

 

 

"Where are we going?" asked Jon, tightening the straps of his saddlebag, as they set off in the pre-dawn light, the clouds above them only just beginning to turn rosy and pink.

Theon offered him the same firm answer he had given two days ago; "East."

Jon glared at him, unamused by the reticence.

"What if more strife befalls us, and we are separated? How shall I know where to meet you?"

"If that happens, you turn around, and go home," Theon said primly, but Jon grabbed a hold of him by the upper shoulder.

He wrested Theon from his own task of filling up their water-skins in the small beck they had been following, a tributary of the mighty Trident. Theon offered him an unimpressed look, but saw that Jon was like to grow belligerent, so consented to elaborate.

"East to the Saltpans," he said; it was the closest port they could safely get to, even though it skirted too close to the border of the Vale for Theon's liking.

"The Saltpans?" Jon repeated in shock, "Are we to sail to Essos? Do you mean to join a sellsword company?"

Theon blinked, and wondered why that thought had never occurred to him. But he quickly reasoned its unsuitability; sellswords being bound by the contracts their masters made. For the first time in many years, Theon was beholden to no House or Queen, free to roam and find his own fortune. He answered only to himself and his own heart, which sung ever the greater for Robb, and the Northern cause. The true cause, though none were aware of it yet.

"Not that," Theon said eventually, "Though you're right to think it a viable idea. Should anything happen to me, maybe that is where you ought to go. To the Second Sons, or the Golden Company, if they will take you."

"Not bloody likely," Jon snorted, "From the two of us, I'm not the one who was knighted at ten-and-three."

"Maybe so," Theon agreed, "But you will be, before long."

Jon gaped at that.

"I will?"

"Hmm, soon enough," said Theon, launching himself with assurance into the saddle.

Jon did likewise, and they set off at a trot, the horses kicking up dirt with their hooves. Jon's pretty grey mare had been stolen by Ironborn, but at least they hadn't had the fore-thought to set all the horses stampeding free. There were three left for Jon and Theon to share. The third horse was tied to his own, carrying the bulk of their supplies. It allowed them to exchange the weight between the three horses, and make better time.

They skirted the floodplanes of the Trident through the lands of House Charlton, vassals of the Freys, careful to hunt in the confines of the thickets. The last thing they needed was to be clad in irons for poaching.

"I can't be gadding about, calling myself Theon Greyjoy," Theon explained as they rode, "I'll forfeit my head for that, or be sold to Robert Baratheon or back to my father, for a pretty sum."

"And so...?"

"So I'm to be Ser Theon of Harlaw, hedge knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and you my squire," Theon finished, having allowed his plan to percolate in his mind, in the time since their forceful loss of the other Northmen.

"And you mean to knight me?" Jon prompted further, his eyes wide and keen with hope.

"Once you earn it," Theon said, "But you're not far off. Two knights travelling alone is more suspicious than a knight and his squire, however. So for now, that's how we'll remain."

It seemed that Jon was mollified by the explanation; pleased to have been let in on the plans, as he asked no more questions for a time. They spurred their horses into a canter, and spoke no more as the clouds burned orange and magenta in the rising sun.

They reached the skirts of Wendish Town by nightfall; a happy surprise that Theon had not known to anticipate, being unfamiliar with this area of the Riverlands entirely. He did not know these roads, and that set him on edge. But he could admit that Jon's company made it easier. He was not sure how he would have fared alone. Theon was glad indeed that fate had smiled upon him, and his own will had been strong enough to save Jon in time.

When they clattered into the yard of the inn, Jon secured the horses with the stablehand. While Theon trudged inside, and arranged for a room. This being the natural partition of tasks for a knight and his squire. Inside, the little stone building was heaving with men (though Theon saw very few sigils he recognised) and it was exceedingly warm because of it. The air was fragnant with ale and the scent of chicken broth, no doubt watered down beyond all sustinence. But it was hot, and there was bread, and that was enough for now. Jon soon joined him at the broad table, huddling close for room was scarce, and they were lucky to find seats at all.

After they had wolfed down their broth, Jon cupped his mug of warm cider gratefully, his hands still chilled from the night air. Theon resisted the urge to wrap a warm arm about him. He knew they must appear to all and sundry as a knight with no great affection for his squire, beyond the bonds of master and apprentice. A gruff man across from them smacked his lips uncouthly as he drank, losing ale to his black bushy beard, and eyed them with interest.

"You'll be heading out with the others, to the tourney?" asked the stranger, and Theon sat up higher, when he realised the words were for him.

"Aye," he said, "Now that I know of it."

The stranger mulled over his words, though Theon did not understand the cause for his interest until he said;

"That's not a Riverman's accent, and no mistake."

"No," agreed Theon, "I'm Ironborn."

The man snorted, but made no disparaging comment. "That's a rare sight in these parts. Come to make your fortune on the mainland, have you?"

"Aye," said Theon, "Something of that nature. A tourney, you said?"

"To celebrate the coming of age, of pretty Lady Ermesande Buckwell, daughter to the old lord," said the old hedge knight, "No doubt her father's looking to tout her beauty and find a husband for her, from the lordlings."

Theon waved that away, as he was far more interested in the coin chest provided for the winners. The best prize went to the lists of course, of which he had no hope in competing, but a thousand dragons for the winner of the melee certainly scuppered Theon's plans to head straight for the Saltpans with no delays. Jon's eyes were as wide as dinner plates, probably wondering what they could do with all that coin to themselves. Buy decent armour for a start, Theon reasoned, thinking of the helm and shield he would need to compete. Thankfully Lord Stark had given him a decent sword, when Theon had sworn himself to Robb's service.

Though Jon had looked away in distaste at the time, Theon was now exceedingly glad that he had wrested what trinkets there were to be found, on the two Ironborn men he had felled.

"I paid the iron price for these," he had explained to Jon, who winced and called it vulgar to pick over the dead.

"You'll be glad of these gold rings when our coin runs out," Theon had assured him then, but though that time had not yet come, he had already found something to spend those heavy rings on, Theon decided.

He explained the change of plans to Jon in their room. He understood the necessary diversion for the chance at coin. Theon doubted he could win against experienced knights of the realm, but there were monetary prizes to be won even unto the third place, and he could strive for that.

Upon the squat bed, they padded their staw mattress with their cloaks, which had been warmed by the fireside. They stretched out together atop the heated fabric, in all but their boots. It was too cold for anything else; no hot water was pumped through these thin walls. Theon tucked Jon in with the blankets, as though he were a babe, and was unmindful of his protests.

"I'm not Rickon," Jon mumbled, "Stop it."

"Quit your grousing," said Theon pressing a firm, chaste kiss to his brow, "You look like to keel over. Go to sleep."

Jon grumbled under his breath, but curled up into a ball as Theon settled down beside him, and was soon snoring softly. Theon remained sitting up a little while longer, his legs streched out on the straw pallet, grateful it was not the hard ground. Jon rolled over and latched onto him, tucked into his side, like a bear cub huddled close to his mother. Theon ran a careful hand through Jon's dark curls, guilty and heartsick to know that loyalty to Theon was the reason Jon had lost his home. He would have to find a way to repay that fealty somehow.

 _I swore myself to Robb alone,_ Theon thought, _but I owe them much; Jon and Sansa both. And there is an atonement I still have to make to Rickon, even if I might have_ _managed to do so for Bran, before my first death._

Theon considered his sword, laid against the bedpost for quick access, beside his bow. A quiver of arrows was slung over the post itself, and Theon had taken the side of the pallet closest to the door. He had shoved the small rickety stool against the door, and if any attempted to rob them, Theon would be the first they confronted. He was uneasy, in an inn so filled with unknown elements, though it was unlikely they would be recognised this far from the North. Northmen did not roam Westeros as often as men from the other Kingdoms, but Theon had no doubt Lord Stark would send riders after them, from Seaguard or perhaps even the crannogmen, as soon as Jory could send a raven.

Like as not, Robert Baratheon would be sending his own men after them, and Theon wondered if it was folly to keep even his first name. Perhaps he should have pretended to be a Skagg, instead. Few would have wanted to investigate a cannibal overmuch, for fear of becoming supper. Before he realised his eyes were closing, Theon slumped into a deep slumber, curled about his new squire. He woke with Jon still latched onto him, Theon's own arm slung over the younger boy's waist. Theon noted with a fond smirk a line of drool leading from Jon's mouth, as he carefully detached himself.

A passing maid was roped into providing a bowl of water to wash with, and Theon left the remaining water for Jon to use, as he sought to break his fast. By the time Jon joined him, Theon had prodded his new morning companions into gossip.

"There's rarely any news of note, from the North," said one buxom wench, travelling in the company of her knightly brothers from a low, masterly House, to watch them compete in the Buckwell tourney.

"I have kin there," said Theon, and found it was not a lie, "And wonder how they fare."

"Oh yes?" asked the girl's largest brother, a man with exceedingly bushy eyebrows.

"Mmm," said Theon, "The Tuttles, bannermen to House Forrester."

"Forresters I know," said another brother, "Ironwood's their trade, is it not?"

"Aye," said Jon, as he joined the table at Theon's side, a bowl of porridge in his hands.

Theon had already determined a reasoning for his enquiries about the North. Though many a traveller wanted news, kinship was always the best means to acquire information. The Tuttles were pig farmers, barely qualifying as a House, and Theon knew they were little-known outside the North.

Theon had once thought that there was no purpose to falsehoods; yet all the time he had been deluding himself as to his fate, believing himself to be dead. Now Theon knew the life after death wasn't half so wonderful; it was filled with monstrous gods and choking hands dragging him down into the bleak depths. He had fought to return to Robb, but there would be no point in his third life if he could not finally fulfil his aim to serve him honourably. No other may call Robb King ever again, but Theon had sworn an oath, and he intended to keep it. If falsehoods and fakery would aid him in that mission, that was a low price that he would gladly pay.

"Best firewood in the Seven Kingdoms," said the bushy-browed knight, regarding the Forrester's trade of Ironwood.

"Only if you want to charm a pretty maiden with the blue flames," Theon smirked, recognising the test for what it was.

"Life's only worthy cause; charming maidens," quaffed the knight.

 _Not just the maidens,_ thought Theon, recalling Robb's beautiful bashful blushes. He smirked, and brought the conversation back to news of the North.

"Not the best time to travel past the Neck, if you've plans to visit your kin," mused the Riverman, "There's queer rumblings, missing children."

"Oh?"

"Ned Stark's ward," said the younger knightly brother, "And his bastard son. There's many stories- some say snatched on the road to be ransomed, others yet that the boys were slain."

Jon jerked, and Theon immediately stomped on his foot to keep him from making a foolish exclamation.

"Dead?" Theon repeated slowly, "Lord Stark must be furious."

"Oh, yes," said the knights' pretty sister, "They say he wrote to the King, and there's talk of war with the Iron Islands again."

"I picked an auspicious time to leave then," said Theon with a large, fake grin.

Jon swallowed heavily, staring down at his bowl of gruel morosely. He must have been worrying alongside Theon's lines of thought. If Lord Stark believed them slain, what had become of Jory?

 _If my father believes me dead, they're fucked,_ Theon realised, _he'll raze the shoreline for the slight against his House, regardless of how he feels for me personally. Honour and pride would demand no less of him._

Jon looked like to insist they head North, sorrow for his family written in every crease of his worried face. Theon knew it well; he felt the same fear for how Robb and Sansa were faring, if rumours of their demise had reached Winterfell.

 _Arya will be devastated,_ Theon thought sadly, _Jon has always been her favourite._

But there was no time to fret over circumstances they could not change. There was work to be done. As they clattered out into the courtyard, Theon tweaked Jon's ear meanly, leaning close to whisper to him even as Jon hissed in pain.

"Not a word, not here," Theon warned the younger boy, "Eyes and ears are everywhere."

Theon released his sharp hold, and raised his voice as Jon rubbed his smarting ear.

"That's enough cheek from you, boy," he drawled pompously, "Fetch my horses."

Jon glared at him, and Theon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, in case there were indeed keen-eyed onlookers paying undo attention to the fiction.

Theon didn't feel safe enough to speak freely until Wendish Town was many miles in their wake, and by then Jon had grown sullen and mawkish at the mistreatment.

"Cheer up, will you?" Theon prodded the younger boy at last, "We've only us two to keep company, and I'd rather you weren't sore at me."

"I'm not a ragdoll," Jon snapped, "For you to pinch and poke."

"I know that," said Theon, "You're an idiot, who almost gave us away, by displaying your every emotion upon your pouting face."

Jon pulled sharply on the reins of his horse, causing it to buck a little and snort in protest. Theon stopped more smoothly, wheeling his stallion round to face Jon.

"We can't stop, if we're to make the tourney in good time," Theon reminded him.

"Bugger the tourney," Jon cursed, "You said we had to get to the Saltpans- Buckwell's in the Crownlands, isn't it?"

"Aye," Theon admitted, "Out of our way, were it not for the better, larger port of Duskendale, where we can buy passage just as easily."

"Passage to where?" Jon demanded belligerently.

"That, you need not know," Theon said.

"Why not?!" Jon exploded, "Don't I have your trust, even now?"

"You have my trust, Jon," said Theon gently, leading his horse to pull up alongside the angry ball of conflict Jon had become.

"Then why-"

"I know how well you love your family. If Lord Stark was to come along this road-" Theon pointed at the muddy track they had ridden down, "-can you tell me with honesty, you would not tell him of our plans, were he to ask?"

Jon sucked in his lower lip, miserable, but unable to deny it.

"I would never wish this conflict of loyalties upon you, Jon," said Theon, "So will you allow me to ease the burden a little?"

"Alright," Jon mumbled, "Sorry."

Theon reached over and ruffled his dark hair. "You've no cause to apologise to me, Jon. Not now, nor ever. It is already forgiven."

With those words Jon's eyes jumped to his, and Theon could see they were no longer clouded with irritation, but pale grey and pleased.

 

 

The night is dark, and full of terrors, the day bright and beautiful, and full of hope.

_There is ice, and there is fire._

 

 

As suspected, the melee was carnage. Utter madness. Theon was uncomfortably reminded of the terrifying moments before his first death, fending off the undead with the blunt wood of his bow and a dragonglass spear, once his arrows had run out. Until the futility of his efforts was revealed as the Night King arrived, arrogant and terrifying and utterly indomitable.

Jon had grumbled for days over Theon's strict order that he wasn't to compete.

"You're too young and inexperienced, Jon," Theon said, shaking him a little by the firm grasp he had on the back of Jon's neck, as though he was a disobedient pup.

"I can fight," Jon insisted, "Our odds are better with two. I might not place, but I can keep some of them from your back-"

"Absolutely not," Theon decreed, "Robb would murder me if I let anything happen to you."

"I'm not a babe!" Jon snapped, "I'm castle trained, and I'm Robb's age."

"I know that-" Theon started, but he was quickly cut off.

"If he's old enough to lay with you, then I'm old enough to fight."

Theon choked on his next argument, coughing badly as the wind was sucked from his lungs. He considered protesting, but the unimpressed look on Jon's face told him what he would make of that. With an unhappy sigh, Theon pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not know how to explain why one was natural, whilst the other required a man to shut off his natural mercy and reaction to screaming pain, to battle onward.

"How did you know?" Theon eventually said.

Jon shrugged. "I walked in on you, in the armoury. You were kissing."

Theon hummed in acknowledgement, unsure what to say. His shoulders slumped, momentarily defeated. He had not envisioned a response for a confrontation such as this. In Winterfell, he would have brazened it out; he was well known for not caring one whit for the opinions of others, and following his own path. But alone with Jon, Theon was too easily sucked into viewing the boy as his older self, so was overly deferential and respectful, at least in his own mind. Outwardly, he had maintained control of their escapade, and Jon was unsure enough to accept his mastery without much complaint.

"I don't understand it," Jon admitted, "How you can be inclined to that. They said you paid for girls, in Winter Town."

"I did," said Theon, not bothering to correct the slight mistake; in this life it had been but the one girl.

"And you found them... not to your taste?"

"It isn't as simple as that," sighed Theon, "Most of us like one or the other, but there are some as like the company of both, equally. And yet more like me, I think. For me, it's women generally. Mostly. Robb's... different. Special."

Jon frowned, clearly flummoxed at how Theon could make such an exception.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, "That he's not got... women's attributes?"

Theon snorted, amused. "Robb's pretty enough, believe me."

Jon made a face, sticking out his tongue in disgust.

"Well, he's your brother," said Theon, "You're not meant to find him comely. It's likely I won't ever look at another man and see a potential bedmate. For me, at least, it's not men. It's just Robb. But none of that alters the fact you'll not be competing in this tourney, Jon Snow."

They were back on familiar ground then; Jon raging, and Theon riding roughshod over his many, frequent complaints. But Theon wasn't in the least bit regretful over his strongly-worded decision. The melee was brutal, and his quick tricks were not enough to save him from the heavy, pounding blows from men in full-plate armour.

Theon had traded his spare horse for the coin to buy enough armour to outfit himself. A breastplate, chainmail, helm and gauntlets were all he could afford. And of course his shield, decorated with his new sigil. It was enigmatic enough to be unknown in the Riverlands. Theon had sent it to be ratified by the Crown when he was knighted by Ser Rodrik, but the kraken and direwolf pup had never appeared anywhere of note.

Theon had no standards stitched, or even a cloak. All he had to show for his sigil was an official seal from the Iron Throne, in Winterfell's library, and a decorated handkerchief that Sansa had sewn for his nameday. Thankfully, that Theon kept on his person at all times, tucked close to his heart. It was almost a favour; a protective gesture and a blessing all at once. Theon took it to mean she had forgiven him for terrifying her out of her wits. He needed it more than ever, on this first sloppy battlefield.

Theon could barely see out of his helm, the sweat of exertion running into his eyes. His breaths were rasps that rattled his very bones, as he battled on, despite the heavy armour dragging him down. Theon parried a blow from a greatsword, longer than he was tall, and it was only his slight advantage of speed, being younger than his opponent, that allowed him to skitter away. Another knight came between them, and Theon hurried away before the sword's equally massive owner could fell him.

The field had turned to mud, and Theon slipped and slid through the squelching mass, narrowly avoiding being sucked into a quagmire. A man swung a mace at his head, just as Theon's foot came free of the mud with a tremendous slopping sound, sending him flying forward. Theon managed to fly headlong into the other man's knees, felling him. Before the brute could gather his wits, Theon reached up to lie his newly-blunted sword against the other man's armpit, where a gap in his motley armour left him vulnerable. The man conceded his loss with a grunt, and staggered from the field.

To his shock, Theon realised there were only four men, including himself, remaining in the ruined field. He eyed the lone hedge knight. Further behind, a highborn knight battled against an exceptionally tall man, clad in armour that was too fine for the lack of sigil on his person. But Theon had no time to ponder the mystery knight's identity. The other hedge knight advanced upon him, sword raised high above his shoulder. Theon held his low. He used the last of his stamina to catch the man's blow on the edge of his left gauntlet, ignoring the pain of the glancing strike to quickly twist his wrist away. With his hand wrapped around the other man's sword handle, Theon wrenched the blade to the left, while he held his aloft. He pointed the still sharp tip to the eye-slit of the man's helm; threatening to blind him in one eye, if he did not release his grip. With a hiss of fury, the other knight relented.

Theon turned to find that the large mystery knight had thoroughly trounced the last remaining highborn whilst he was occupied. The highborn was being carried from the field between two squires, but Theon only had eyes for his final opponent. He didn't last long against the gigantic knight, but Theon didn't expect to. He was elated to have placed second. Never in his wildest imaginings did he expect as much. Theon had been aiming for third place, and the prize of a hundred dragons. He didn't even know what the other winning pots were; he assumed there'd be no need for him to know.

Jon scurried to his side, thrilled and proud as he took Theon's suddenly horribly heavy sword. They shared a tent with a dozen other men, many of them throwing jealous looks Theon's way as Jon began to wrestle with the buckles of his new armour. Theon left the dented and muddied pieces in Jon's capable hands, as he went to collect his winnings and sign his name in the lord's record book.

To his great surprise, Theon found that the outright winner had refused to remove their helm or any of their armour whilst signing for their winnings. He was exhausted, just in his remaining chainmail and surcoat. Still, now that they were no longer attempting to batter him into the dirt, Theon recognised the hulking walk of the winner. He grabbed his hefty gold purse- of five-hundred dragons! - and hurried after the mystery knight. When they at last raised their visor, well away from the scribe's table, Theon planted himself in the winner's path.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth," Theon said boldly, quite forgetting he should not have that information, so flummoxed was he by the rogue, unexpected sight of Sansa's lady knight.

She frowned at him, suspicious and with good reason, so Theon did what he could to rectify the situation. He stooped into a low bow, and gave her a small, genuine smile.

"I don't yet have much in the way of food or ale," he said, "But I can afford a little better now. It would be my honour to host the deserving winner of the melee."

"You know my name," said the young woman slowly, "But I do not have the good fortune of yours."

"Forgive me," he said, "Ser Theon of Harlaw."

"You're Ironborn," she blurted, a look of wonder in her arresting blue eyes. Then she blushed, beet red, which only accentuated her ugliness.

"Forgive me," she muttered, "That was rude. I only meant, that I did not expect- I... You're very polite."

Theon chuckled, remembering her blunt nature well. It was wonderful to see a familiar face after a confusing series of days, though there was no recognition in her eyes.

"Far worse has been said of my people," Theon said, "Than to comment on their propensity to be impolite. Please, come; if my squire's common behaviour is to be trusted, there'll be hot stew waiting."

Bewildered, Brienne consented to trot after him, while Theon did his best to conjure a way to gain her favour and assistance. He could not have asked for a better companion for a quest, but he had little idea on how to persuade her to his cause. Still, the thing must be done. Only a fool would let an ally of such worth fall from his grip.


	8. [R'hllor, the Lord of Light]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Now here I go again, I see with crystal vision_  
>  _But I keep my visions to myself._  
>  _It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams_  
>  _and have you any dreams you'd like to sell?_

R'hllor the Lord of Light

_shadow_

They had shared a pleasant time in the company of their former and future ally, Brienne. It was a richer wine than Theon expected to taste, to be in her company, though he knew Jon yet failed to share his sentiment. There was no denying that she was an unusual creature, and Jon in his youth did not yet know what to make of her.

“Tell me, Lady Brienne,” said Theon, the first night they supped together, “What do you know of the Others?”

“The Others?” said the older woman.

Her hands cupped about a small cup of wine that she had been nursing all night. She was a cautious lady, and was careful to keep her wits in strange company. Theon wished he had displayed an ounce of her shrewd nature when he was her age. As they sat in agreeable companionship, Theon allowed Brienne a moment to gather her thoughts. He knew that the subject was not an oft discussed one, outside of curses imploring the Others to 'take his eyes' and suchlike. At length, Brienne of Tarth had pursed her lips and answered;

“They came during the Long Night. Another race, of ice beings with mysterious powers. They hated men and warred with them, and were beaten back.”

This was the accepted history of the Others, and Theon was impressed that she knew even this much, without consulting a maester beforehand. The legends were scattered by the wind, dismissed and besmirched, especially in the South.

“A very succinct summary,” Theon complimented her, “Though a little inaccurate.”

“Oh?”

“They weren't beaten back, so much as bargained with,” said Theon.

He'd had chance to learn much about the true nature of the Night King, from speaking with Bran. There had been many dark nights in preparation for the Battle for Winterfell, as the living gathered all the information they could. Sometimes, Theon had woken in Winterfell as a newly immature child and thought himself back amidst the Long Night, balanced on a blade’s edge, waiting for icy death. Many nights he had snuck into Robb’s room, just to watch him breathe in sleep, and be rid of the nervous tension before a battle.

At Theon’s side, Jon had sat up a little higher. He was more familiar with the legend, due to Old Nan's scary stories. But there was no doubt it was bizarre for Theon to randomly question strangers on the lore of the North. He fixed Theon with a perplexed look.

“I see Jon doesn't believe me either,” Theon chuckled, “For how do you bargain with a creature that cannot speak the Common Tongue? With not men but monsters, ones that wield blades of ice tempered by magic, those with the power to raise fog and deadly icy blizzards, cold enough to freeze a man's very breath?”

He waited for a long, pregnant moment.

“With sacrifice, of course,” Theon had concluded, “The real only price, for anything you desire.”

Brienne frowned, disturbed and confused by his words. Theon could not afford to alienate her, and so he explained further without prompting.

“Lady Brienne, did you not sacrifice hours of your time in blood, sweat and toil, to get good enough at the sword to best all others in the melee?” he asked.

She blinked, clearly not anticipating this line of reasoning, and eventually agreed; “I did.”

“Did you not witness me do the same, Jon, with the sword and bow?”

“I did,” Jon agreed.

“Men sacrifice a little piece of their dignity, each time they kneel to an unworthy lord,” Theon tacked on, “The luckiest of us sacrifice our lives in the pursuit of a noble goal. To fight for a cause you truly believe in is the sweetest song of all, is it not?”

“I imagine so,” said Brienne softly, “Would that we were all lucky enough to find one.”

“Indeed,” Theon said with a slow smile, watching her swallow the hooked bait without the slightest hint she was being caught on his line.

“But the Others,” Jon interrupted, sounding like a tiny, high-pitched version of his adult self, constantly preoccupied by the threat from the far North.

Theon smiled at him indulgently, and nodded at him to go on. In the firelight, Jon’s Northern features were elongated, his eyes more deep-set as his cheeks glowed brightly with the reflection of the flames. Somehow, looked startlingly like a mixture of his father, Lord Stark, and Robb, despite his lack of Tully blood. It only served to remind Theon how far from his gentle, covetous touches Robb was at that exact moment. It stung as sharply as a thin, fresh wound in uncut skin, raw and terrible. Theon flinched, his eyes flickering back to the safety of the anonymous flames. The indistinct flickers in the fire were unable to remind him of anything of import, giving him momentary serenity as he inhaled deeply of the woodsmoke through his nose.

“Old Nan said the Last Hero fought against the Others, with the Children of the Forest,” Jon reminded Theon insistently, “That together, they banished them back to the Lands of Always Winter.”

Jon's sweet, boyish voice was not so comparable to Robb's, and so Theon was able look toward him again whilst forcefully maintaining his inner calm. So that when Theon focused on Jon's ear rather than his face, his smaller companion was not worried unduly about silly Theon and his scary stories.

“So she did,” Theon agreed simply, for Old Nan was indeed a font of knowledge, foolishly untapped by most.

“But answer me this,” he continued, “When have you ever heard of an enemy, with a larger force and a strong position - perhaps high ground, or ringed about you in a siege, or blockading you along the coast - when have you ever heard of them agreeing to go peacefully home without claiming restitution of some kind?”

There was a dreadfully long moment of quiet, shared between the three unlikely companions, whilst the revelry continued unabated all about them, unaffected by their serious demeanour. Theon felt ridiculous, with a sudden flash of worry that Brienne might leap up and name him for a braggart and a liar. But Brienne was not a brash lord used to getting their own way. She was a woman who listened and learnt and used her own good judgement to understand who or what was honourable, at least when Theon had known her last.

She did not disappoint him.

“Never,” Lady Brienne finally blurted, in answer to Theon’s question, with a look of awe on her face.

Theon wondered if Brienne was suddenly questioning every tale she had heard, those immortalised in song and copied down by maesters decade after decade, until the truth was watered down like cheap wine. He hoped she was.

“Never,” Theon repeated.

He clamped down on the foolish urge to crow the word like a victorious idiot. Jon was frowning heavily, his long face screwed up tight in consternation. Theon put him out of his misery with a low chuckle.

“Does it not make more sense, if a bargain was struck?” Theon asked, “Is that not how wars are ended? Treaties signed, hostages taken, marriages made?”

Jon looked unconvinced, but Brienne nodded, measured and slow. She seemed intrigued by his reasoning, and the usual choice of subject, leaning forward in her eagerness.

“What was the bargain?” she inquired.

“A division, I think, between the two cultures,” Theon explained, “Bran the Builder raised a Wall of ice between them, to make the boundary clear.”

Jon seemed more ready to accept this, and sagged slightly to rest his sleepy head on his fists, his elbows perched on his thighs. If Jon wasn't more cautious, Theon suspected he would fall asleep with his head pillowed on his hands, and tip over onto his face.

“That's not all,” Theon continued enigmatically, aware of the enduring need to enchant his audience, so their attention did not waver.

“Go on,” said Jon.

He spoke with all the enthusiasm of the boy he still was, despite their recent hardships.

“And a marriage pact,” Theon announced.

This pronouncement was met with stark disbelief, and Theon gulped back a chuckle. It was the hardest supposition to swallow. It had been for him also, when Bran spoke of it, in his hollow, inflection-less voice. Bran had the dubious privilege of being devoid of all judgement. But Theon had been disgusted back then, and he felt bile rise in him now. To lay with one of those creatures.... it was an abomination.

“You know the story of the 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, don't you, Jon?” Theon prompted, “Old Nan was fond of that one.”

“She said he was a Stark, who lost his mind,” said Jon, swiftly warming to the familiar subject, “He made sacrifices to the Others. And took to wife an evil woman, with skin as pale as snow and eyes like blue stars.... oh!”

“Yes, I see you understand now,” Theon nodded, “The 13th Lord Commander, the Night's King, took an Other for a bride.”

“To secure the treaty?” Brienne cut in, intrigued by the tale, for all that she must have considered it a children's story entirely.

Theon smiled at her quick wits, and made a noise of agreement. He took a deep drink from his wine, satisfied by the rich taste. It was pleasant, to be able to afford a few luxuries, despite their current homeless status.

“They did not sacrifice the lives of men, however bloodthirsty the tales get in the retelling,” Theon revealed, “The price they paid was far steeper. They surrendered their children.”

“They butchered their own children?” Brienne exclaimed, looking sickened.

Theon immediately shook his head.

“A common misconception,” he said, “Sacrifice is only _a loss_. Of comfort, or precious empty hours, as with our training in arms. For the Night's King and his Queen, it was the gift of their babes to her kin. Given as fosterlings, to be brought up in the ways of Those Who Walk in White.”

Theon allowed that unfamiliar notion to sit with them a while, taking another long sip from his sweet summerwine. Jon looked horrified, but fascinated despite himself. Brienne was equally riveted, her blue eyes pinned on Theon.

But when Jon next opened his mouth, it was to let out a tremendous yawn. Theon swiftly staggered to his feet, leaning down to help Jon up. He placed his hands beneath Jon’s armpits and levered him up. Then Theon chivvied him to bed. Grumbling, Jon consented to go, gulping down a cup of water before stumbling off to their newly acquired room.

Brienne had consented to lead her new companions to the inn she had already taken a room in. She had first passed an hour or so in pleasant conversation, with Theon and Jon in their shared tent. Until it became evident, that the other recuperating knights did not appreciate being reminded of their loss, by the presence of two winning competitors. So they had relocated to the inn, where Theon had purchased a room for him and Jon, and deposited some of his belongings; a spare cloak (that he had stolen from a dead Ironborn along with his rings), water-skins and a saddle-bag containing cheese and bread.

Jon had seen to the horses again. When he joined Theon in the room, to wash off the dust of the road, he found Theon counting the gold in the large winning purses.

“That's half for you, half for me,” said Theon, nodding to the two bags, which had contained two-hundred and fifty gold dragons each.

“I did nothing!” Jon had protested, “I can't take your gold, Theon. Those are your rightful winnings.”

Theon had rolled his eyes, and pushed the heavy purse across the bed toward him.

“Think, Jon.” He chided, but not too harshly, “If we are separated, or set upon by bandits, it is better if the gold is split between us.”

Jon had mulled this over with an unhappy twist to his mouth. Eventually he had agreed with Theon’s reasoning, but still insisted that half was too much. He reluctantly took two hundred dragons, and Theon declared they had kept Brienne waiting long enough.

They had found her outside. She was warming her cockles beside a roaring fire, which was heaped with thick logs from the nearby forest. Theon returned to it now, its merry glow diminished but still considerable. Theon was certainly grateful for the warmth found far below the icy stars, after he had harried Jon, to take to bed.

“You have a lot of affection for him,” Brienne noted quietly when he returned.

She was as bold as he had come to expect of her, looking at Theon from below hooded eyes. He wondered if she suspected them lovers, for all that Theon found himself projecting brotherly affection toward Jon, now the younger boy was his responsibility to keep safe. Brienne was a knight of the Stormlands, Theon knew. A once and future defender of Renly Baratheon. No doubt she was aware of Renly’s proclivities, so Theon did not fault her, for her assumption about them.

“He's my goodbrother,” Theon said, the words spilling out of his mouth before he had time to overthink them.

He was not usually quite so blunt, or like to speak without caution. Despite his honest reputation in Winterfell, Theon had also learnt to avoid a beating by walking away, when he found it difficult to bite his tongue. There were many guardsmen that did not approve of his blunt edges, and so he had allowed them to be sanded down in the years since he had first returned to childhood. Theon did not see the use in lies, but cultivating futile hostility by refusing to back down was equally fruitless also. After his second return to life, Theon had begun to deceive again, when he felt it necessary to serve a nobler goal.

Yet his words now were not entirely a lie. Theon had no wife, but he had Robb, whom he cherished as much and more as any wife had ever been, by her lord husband. It was close enough to the truth as Theon could express, in the mixed company ringed around the fire.

“My beloved would murder me, if I let Jon come to harm,” he added, picturing how delicious Robb looked, with his hair tussled and cheeks pink after throwing a fit.

A smirk danced on Theon’s lips. The thought of how outraged Robb would be to hear himself implied to be a wife; even though he usually took the woman's position when they fucked, and let Theon do the sowing… Oh, if only he could look upon Robb's sweet face again and apologise for the heartache he had unintentionally caused him. Would Robb ever forgive him? Or would his heart have plunged into hatred long before the moment of their reunion?

Brienne nodded. She had evidently accepted Theon’s explanation was a perfectly sound reasoning to show overt care toward a squire. But Theon found his melancholic nature was regaining a hold, and he could not find cheer in so small a thing when his mind was dominated by bittersweet thoughts of Robb. Yet he could not simply walk away from her. She could be a tremendous asset to Robb's cause.

“What made you want to tell that story?” Brienne blurted, “About the Others?”

“Shifting snow and howling winds,” said Theon enigmatically, “The tide turns, and the dead come with it. It seems the Long Night will come again; and we shall live to see it, if not survive it.”

Brienne swallowed audibly, her lovely blue eyes glittering in the low light of the flames. It was not long after that before she motioned to take her leave.

“Will we see you, on the morrow?” Theon asked.

Brienne stilled. He supposed she was unused to any seeking her company overlong. It saddened Theon to see her so content to be alone. That one so valiant and stalwart as Brienne of Tarth, had come to expect none would ever crave her company. Lady Brienne was brave and vigilant; a true knight. Theon owed her more than his life. She had ensured he would not face punishment for defying Ramsay. Theon yearned to repay that debt, and he would be honoured to ride in her company. Though he could not yet express it in words, lest he make her terribly suspicious, he hoped his eyes conveyed some of his feeling.

“I'm bound for the South,” she warned him, “And I ride with the dawn.”

“Then I'll retire also,” Theon said cheerfully, “You are pleasant company, Brienne of Tarth. Jon and I tend to talk in circles, if left too long with only one another. You bring a breath of fresh air.”

A tiny smile appeared on Brienne's lips. Theon wondered how often she had ever been complimented in her life. He suspected the number was a low one.

“You never did say how you knew me,” said Brienne, suddenly stiffening as she realised she had forgotten to ask.

She had perhaps been caught up in Theon's cheerful, agreeable mood and the easy rapport he had with Jon.

“The waves spoke to me,” said Theon, “And your reputation goes before you, my lady.”

He took his leave of her before she could protest, with a stiff formal bow, then hurried to his bed. Theon was exhausted from the day's excitements, flumping down beside Jon as soon as he returned to the room. They both slept heavily, a rare night where neither was terrorised by haunting hellscapes in their dreams. When they readied themselves in the morning, Theon almost forgot the warn Jon of the relationship Brienne believed them to share. Jon smirked, thrilled at the jape, but his face fell abruptly afterward like a shutter snapping abruptly shut in a gale.

“Robb must be sick with grief,” Jon whispered, “Would that we could send him a raven.”

Theon squeezed Jon's young, bony shoulders with his sleep-warm hands, the only reassurance he could give.

“No lord that learns of who we are, will send any missive save a ransom note,” Theon warned him. Jon nodded morosely in reluctant agreement. Theon swallowed down his own grief, as he always must, with the fortitude of the long-suffering.

Three days later, they parted with Brienne on the road, but Theon knew he had succeeded in ensuring they parted as friends. For now, that was enough. The sea was calling him; but not home, not yet. To the conqueror’s island, where they might find kindling to keep the flame of hope burning.

 

valar morghulis

_valar dohaeris_

 

 

The waves slithered round the rugged shoreline like a coiled snake, ready to rear up and strike at any time. Theon had affixed his eyes to those treacherous waters each day and night since they had landed here, and still they did not dare to reach up and grasp him.

 _Coward,_ Theon thought contemptuously, _Show yourself, if you want me so badly._

The wind howled, impotent in its tempestuous rage, as usual. These murky waters were nothing like the honest grey waves that ever whispered him home. A home that Theon dared not think on; nor the clammy but yet unseen hands, grappling and grabbing and grasping in the undead depths, where he belonged, deep, deep in the dark where the drowned things lived…

“What are we _waiting_ for?” Jon moaned at his back, peevish and impudent with it.

Theon loved him for his impudence, he realized, and he shook away the ghosts of his past and future self. The damp drizzle ticked his skin as he shivered. Theon had not noticed the storm clouds had turned to rain, until that minute. Jon’s impatience was almost a living pup between them, snarling with hackles raised. He dragged his eyes from the sea, from death and darkness and despair and turned instead to his charge.

Theon allowed himself an idle moment to wonder if Ghost had been born yet. No, that was still to come, was it not? Would the pups live, without Jon there to appeal to Lord Stark? Perhaps not. Did it matter? But of course it did; the Starks needed better protection than Theon alone had to offer. He could not even offer the might of his parent’s Houses, the might of the longships, gliding over the sea…

Theon forced his vacant gaze meet Jon’s eyes, before he could get lost in idle musings once again.

“We wait for flame and shadow and death, Jon Snow,” said Theon softly.

Jon visibly recoiled, but Theon had no time for niceties, and observed stoically, with only a flicker of regret.

“Death?” Jon yelped, “But you promised we would be safe here!”

“For a time, we will breathe here,” Theon countered, “Breathe and listen and wait. No one is ever safe anywhere.”

“But- that’s- bah!” Jon raged, his fingers swelling into fists in his fury. “It’s not honourable to- to _listen_ at doorways, like some sort of catspaw. If we are discovered-”

Theon’s hand had snapped out before he could master himself, and he caught hold of Jon’s ear to keep the belligerent child still. With quiet menace, Theon took only a single step to encroach upon Jon, towering above him, despite the small distance between their heights. Jon gaped up at his looming, menacing countenance, frozen more by his fear, than the actual loose hold Theon had of him.

“Idiot child,” Theon hissed, “Have you learnt nothing? Fuck honour. Fuck oaths! Fuck Houses, and False Kings and glory and gold! All that matters is family. Those that breathe and bleed for you.”

Theon gave Jon a good shake, and elaborated, in case the boy still held room for misconceptions and mistruths. “The family you hold in esteem, those who would fight for you. Robb. Sansa. Yara. You. And?”

Jon was gaping at him uselessly, but at last his slack mouth croaked out; “Arya. Bran, Rickon, Father, Lady Stark-”

Theon slapped him, striking swift and hard, and mercilessly let Jon drop like a stone into the muddy bank atop the cliff face, as the wind screamed out his fury for him.

“Liar,” Theon hissed, “The living are all liars, but I thought better of you, Jon Snow! He Who Was Promised, you who will walk with Death and yet defeat it…”

“You’re mad,” whispered Jon, his honest eyes as grey as the waves of home. “Truly mad. I thought- I believed-”

Jon was crying now, sobbing like the lonely babe he was, far from Winterfell and all that he knew. Theon felt his ire die, damped soggily by salted tears, and softened, feeling Robb’s frosty gaze on his back. Theon knew he was failing, just as he always had.

“Mad, aye,” Theon kneeling in the mud beside his charge.

He would not deny that accusation. Theon gently stroked the unruly mop of dark curls back from Jon’s tear-streaked skin, contrite.

“But not a liar.” Theon continued, “The flames are here, look? Just as I promised.”

Gulping, shivering and scared, Jon shakily allowed himself to be helped back to his feet. On the shore below, stood the reason for their many quiet hours, waiting on the cliffs high above the sand; close to the most private, least used path to the shore. Theon knew of it, because he had found his steps were ignored by the Dragon Queen and her allies. Without the ability to further his House, he was as useless to her as he had been to everyone else. So he had wandered alone, in quiet misery, when they had no need of his input. However, Theon saw that the gods in their cruelty, had been leading him to dance to their infinite tune. He was no threat to Daenerys then, so he had walked unhindered; and now, Theon would be the first to greet Melisandre of Asshai, as she stepped upon the shores of Dragonstone.

He did not have to drag Jon after him. A boy’s curiosity, like his rumbling stomach or aching cock, propelled him forward better than any harsh word Theon could mutter. They hurried down the treacherous path, and did not speak nor encounter difficulty on their way to the cove, despite the heavy rain clouds blocking out the sun.

“Valar morghulis, my lady,” was Theon’s cautious greeting, loud enough that the words carried, and caught her attention.

The unnatural eyes of the Red Witch snapped toward him. Paying no mind to the bustle of the smallfolk unloading cargo from the capital, the intimidating woman stalked forward. A seductive smirk was already firmly affixed upon her lips. Theon offered her no smirk of his own. His face was smooth stone, unpolished by falsehoods.

Until she understood him, Melisandre would sooner peel the skin from Theon’s face with her claws, than join his cause, this he knew. Theon was not fooled by her placid head tilt, or her beautiful red tresses, similar to Sansa’s but too deep in colour to be a natural shade. Lies upon lies, and yet she made an astounding impression. Indeed, it was as if Melisandre was entirely unaffected by her journey at sea. Briefly, Theon wondered if he ever offered such an impression to the living, when they looked at him.

"Valar dohaeris,” at last she murmured, her eyes flickered rapidly over him and Jon both, but she offered no further comment.

“Your mission was not yet a success, I gather? To win Robert Baratheon, for the Lord of Light?”

With his polite inquiry, all trace of sweetness was gone from Melisandre’s false features. Her eyes were flames, and had Theon never been burnt in the fires of death, Theon might have been afraid. Instead, he waited, silent and unmoved. At length, she rallied, and with the twitch of an eyebrow, she stepped closer, the better to assess him.

“You are not of the Order,” she whispered, “A priest would never cloak himself thus.”

“Perhaps not,” Theon agreed, “But I am a friend. I could bring much to the fight.”

“The Lord will take what he needs,” she countered immediately. “And the none-believers will be ashes in his wake, when he burns their treachery from their flesh.”

Jon let out an almost imperceptible whimper, and Melisandre’s eyes flickered to him again, correctly realising he was the easier target.

“There is but one path; the path of Light. All that walk in darkness will be obliterated-”

“I have walked in the darkness.” Theon countered, pushing between her and Jon, so that her scarlet, burning eyes could roast Jon no longer.

“I have been skinned and flayed by flame and truth.” Theon snarled, “Parted with flesh and blood and bone. Death held me, and I tore his hands from my skin.”

“You dare-” she hissed, but Theon dragged back his cloak from where it covered the scar on his throat.

Melisandre pounced on him, her sharp nails cutting into his cold skin as she clawed at the mottled scar, to see if it was real. The Red Witch grasped Theon’s chin and neck and ear with her talons, her bold red eyes boring into him with an intensity he had not had the misfortune of enduring, since he last encountered Ramsay Bolton. Theon twitched in her hold, terrified, but defiant against his base urge to flee, though he could not quite supress a hum of disapproval. Still, he did not shake nor scoff nor attempt to free himself.

Theon knew better than that.

Thrashing beasts only succeeded in slaughtering themselves, never in gaining their freedom; which is why sheep and cows and goats were able to be corralled into pens and tamed. No matter how Ramsay had tried to convince him otherwise, Theon was not a beast. He was a man of cunning and strength, and he refused to cower from the witch. His bravery would not stand in the face of a greater evil - that of Ramsay himself - but thankfully Ramsay was many, many miles hence.

“Fire and salt,” Theon informed Melisandre’s unanswered query, “And the hard-won leniency of the Drowned God,” he admitted reluctantly.

Several paces away, the lashing waves grew more horses of foam, frothing with unseemly pride. Theon scowled at them, and refused to be grateful.

That, and he was distracted by the undeniable heat of Melisandre’s fervour. The insanity practically poured off her, like boiling water overflowing from a pot, but at least her eyes held a passionate zeal that was the antithesis to Ramsay. As near as Theon could reason, when he cared to attempt so, Ramsay’s madness was a gaping hole where his compassion should be. Many men were black of heart, but none other that Theon had seen, in living or beyond, held eyes so dead and empty. Ramsay was entirely of ice; whereas Melisandre was fire; fervid and incendiary with the slightest provocation.

“There is only one God,” Melisandre snapped, shoving Theon away in disgust, her eyes wide. At last they saw a human reaction from her, as her chest began to heave.

“One God, and his Greatest Enemy. You should not be here,” she hissed, “And if it was not the Lord’s will that you return...”

She trembled in rage and horror and unleashed potential.

“The night is dark, and full of terrors…” she murmured, but before she could gather her senses, and skitter away or attempt to strike him or set him ablaze, Theon smiled widely.

“No, it was not his will.” Theon acknowledged, “But What is Dead May Never Die, but Rises Again, Harder and Stronger. And we have much work to do, my lady, if the Great Other is to be defeated.”

“The Lord needs no assistance from dead thralls. There is One God, and he does not share glory.”

“Fuck glory,” Theon repeated his earlier words. “There is no hell but the one we already reside in. If you wish to fight back the growing darkness, you will need my help… I will leave you to learn it in the flames.”

Theon took a gracious step back.

The glimmer of the ruby at her throat seemed to glow brighter, as the Red Witch scrutinised him. For a long moment, Theon expected Melisandre to make an attempt on his life. And if she succeeded, there was no guarantee Theon could drag himself from the depths again. But that did not mean he would not attempt to return. Still, he did not relish the prospect of another tussle with the gods, so he remained stoic and still. Eventually, Melisandre twisted her lips into an ugly sneer of derision.

“Your offer is noted, my lord,” she said scornfully, before sweeping her billowing crimson skirts away from him, as though Theon might somehow sully them by his mere presence.

They watched her glide imperiously toward the imposing, dragon-forged keep in silent contemplation. When at last they had shaken off her witchery, Jon offered his own stout opinion.

“She’s fucking terrifying,” Jon declared, sounding very much like Arya for a moment. “Worse even than you.” 

Theon allowed himself another rare smirk, and he corrected the younger boy, again.

“She’s marvellous,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #JonDidNotSignUpForThisShit.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait! You know how life can be.... Please let me know if you enjoyed this new chapter! I appreciate every one of your comments so much, it makes me giddy. Hope you all had a lovely Christmas! See you in the New Year :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review! Creators constantly crave feedback, please support the movement to increase interaction between fans in fan-created spaces :)
> 
> Quote sources for chapter summaries will be included in the final chapter.


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